


Fallen

by Sara_Ellison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014, Crowley just wants to be loved, Demon Blood, Drug Use, Fallen Castiel, Hoarding toilet paper, Inevitability, Kevin Tran Advanced Placement, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sara_Ellison/pseuds/Sara_Ellison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean will do anything to save his family, but sometimes the line between saving them and losing them is hard to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is set directly after "Sacrifice." Another in my series of post-episode Destiel fix-its, I suppose, though this is less fix-y and more...canon-consistent, I guess you could say. I'm also breaking tradition by finishing it more than three whole hours before the subsequent episode airs!

Sam was falling apart under his brother's hands, and Dean didn't know how to stop it. He didn't know what was killing Sam, and he didn't know how to heal him, and he didn't know anyone else who could. The faith healer who Sam had taken him to when Dean was at death's door had been controlling a Reaper; the only real healer had turned out to be Cas, and all the angels had fallen. Dean didn't know what had become of Castiel, but he hadn't come when Dean called and he could only assume that Cas was as powerless as Dean.

"Tell me where it hurts," he whispered frantically, as though he could help; as though they were kids and Sam was crying because he fell down, and Dean could give him a kiss and make it all better.

Sam convulsed under his hands, his breath hissing through his gritted teeth as he held back a scream. "Everywhere," he choked. One hand curled into a fist around a handful of Dean's shirt. "Dean. We need to—" He broke off as another spasm ripped through him.

"What, Sammy?" Dean demanded. "What should we do? How do we help you?"

"Missouri," Sam got out.

Dean shook his head, confused. "What's in Missouri?"

"No. Lawrence," Sam said.

"Who's Lawrence?"

Sam punched him weakly, his hand glancing off Dean's shoulder. " _Dumbass_. Missouri Mosley, in Lawrence."

"Oh!" Of course. With Pamela gone, the matronly psychic was the only one they trusted who might be able to help. Dean got a shoulder under Sam's and hauled him to his feet, then helped him into the car, where he curled in on himself in agony. "Sammy, come on," Dean muttered, trying to thread the seatbelt around his brother's tensed limbs to fasten it.

It was a stressful drive. Dean's attention was only half on the road; he wanted nothing more than to just hold onto Sammy until he was okay again. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Sam's arm. He tried to talk to Sam to keep his attention focused, but after a while Sam began to shiver, the tremors wracking his body and making his teeth chatter so hard Dean was afraid he'd bite his tongue in half if he tried to speak.

It began to rain, hard, making Dean think of floods and arks. The Impala's wipers were hard-pressed to keep up with the downpour, and Dean found himself squinting through the windshield at the distant tail lights of the car ahead of them, his headlights all but useless. Under any other circumstances, he would have pulled over and waited for the torrent to ease up, but Sam's life was at stake here.

"Dean!" Sam gasped. "S-stop!" Dean slammed on the brakes, the tires squealing in distress. He stared at Sam, trying to ascertain what was wrong, but Sam was looking at the road.

Just at the edge of the illumination shed by the headlights, a sodden, trenchcoat-clad figure trudged along the shoulder of the highway. Dean's heart simultaneously leaped into his throat and sank—it was Cas, it must be Cas, he'd recognize that silhoutte anywhere, even rain-drenched; but if he was walking through this, it was because he had no other choice. It confirmed Dean's fears: Castiel was an angel no longer.

He flipped the hazards on and scrambled out of the car. "Cas!" he yelled through the storm. Slowly, the figure on the side of the road halted and turned toward Dean, and stood still as Dean ran to him and threw his arms around him.

"Cas," Dean gasped. "Fuck, I didn't know what happened to you. Are you okay?" He pulled back to look at him.

Cas didn't answer; he was shaking a little, and Dean thought at first it was because he was drenched to the bone and, and he was human now, and if Cas died of hypothermia Dean would kill him. Then he saw how swollen Cas' eyes were, and realized the water streaming down his face was as much from his eyes as the rain. He was sobbing silently, his frame trembling to contain his shudders of grief.

"Come on," Dean said. "We gotta get Sam to Kansas. We'll take care of you too but we gotta go, okay? Come on." He grabbed Cas' hand and pulled him to the car.

Cas slid in the driver's side, settling in the middle of the bench seat between Dean and Sam. Sam looked up at him, his face a mask of pain to match Castiel's, then extended a hand. Cas took it.

His other hand curled around Dean's arm, gripping so hard he kept pulling Dean's hand off the wheel. Dean drove left-handed then, his right resting reassuringly on Cas's knee as the other man clung to his bicep.

*****

Missouri answered the door, wrapped in a dressing gown, after two impatient rings of the bell. "All right, what is it?" she said, then pursed her lips as she took in the three of them, standing on her doorstep in the pale morning light. Dean had one arm around Sam's waist, holding him up; the other arm was still in Castiel's desperate grip, as Cas stood with his face tucked in against Dean's shoulder. "Dean Winchester, what have you brought me?" Missouri scolded, stepping back to let them in. "Seven years without a peep from you, and now this. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man. Well, don't just stand there, get yourself inside before your friend catches his death of cold." She nodded at Cas, who was still considerably damp after hours in the car.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "I hate to dump our problems on you, but Sam needs help—"

"I can see that," Missouri said, not unkindly. "Let's get him to the couch." She led the way to the living room and helped lower Sam down onto the sofa, where he slumped against a throw pillow. She sat on the cushion beside him, facing him, and took his face in her hands, studying him. "Now, what have you done to yourself, boy?"

"T-t-tried to c-close—" Sam began, struggling.

"He tried to close the gates of Hell and it woulda killed him so I stopped him," Dean said. "He was doing these Trials—" Cas shifted suddenly, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist. "He was about to finish it when I interrupted him. I got there just in time."

"Have you ever been interrupted just before you finished, Dean?" Missouri asked, now holding both of Sam's hands in hers and peering at his palms. "Do you know what that feels like?"

Dean boggled a little. Missouri was a lady, surely she couldn't be talking about _that_.

"Once," Sam managed, "when he w-was seventeen, I walked in on him and th-this girl..."

"Shut up, Sam!" Dean said, embarrassed. "Dude, that's not the same thing."

"No," Missouri agreed, "what you did to Sam was worse. Now, I'm not saying it was wrong," she added hastily. "He would have died if you hadn't. But if he had been allowed to finish, he would have spent his _soul_ in completing the Trials. It would have been the most powerful release of energy a human is capable of. Imagine the pain you know, and multiply it by a million."

Dean cleared his throat. "Are you saying Sam's soul is...blue-balled?" Cas huffed against the side of his neck, and Dean frowned, pulling away to look at him. "Dude, are you _laughing_? It's not funny! Sam could still die!"

Cas shrugged apologetically, grinning helplessly, and wiped tears from his face. Sam chuckled too, briefly, before it was cut off by a gasp of pain. "It is kinda funny," he got out. "D-Dean, I f-forgive you, but I w-will never let you f-forget this."

"Let him laugh," Missouri said gently. "Lord knows he has little enough to smile about, poor boy."

"He's not a boy," Dean said defensively, as Cas' face fell at her words. Fresh tears leaked from his eyes as he folded back in against Dean. "He's a few millennia older than you."

"He's less than a day old," Missouri corrected. "And don't you ever forget his birthday."

Dean squeezed Cas against him instinctively. "How did you know?" he asked. "Can you tell what he is—what he was—just by looking at him?"

"In a manner of speaking," she answered. "I saw them falling from the skies last night, and I see the grief in your friend's face. It's not a very big leap."

Cas shuddered again, silently sobbing. "Sshh, Cas," Dean soothed, stroking up and down the other man's back. "It's gonna be okay. I promise." Some part of him knew he shouldn't make promises like that, but he would die before he let anything make a liar out of him now.

Missouri stood. "Sam needs rest," she declared. "Right now, his body is struggling to dissipate the potential energy built up by the Trials. It may yet overwhelm him, but he stands a better chance of surviving if we keep him comfortable and cared for."

Dean nodded. Taking care of Sam was what he did best. It was what he'd done all his life. "What about Castiel?" he asked. Cas stiffened in his arms.

Missouri shook her head sadly. "I can't restore him to Grace," she said. "I don't know if anyone but the Lord can do that."

"No," Dean said, "that's not what I'm talking about. He hasn't said a word since we found him. What's wrong with him?"

She frowned and peered at Cas. "Nothing," she said. "As far as I can tell, he is a perfectly healthy human being." Cas's grip on Dean tightened to the point of pain.

"Hys-st-sterical—" Sam got out. He was shaking hard now, stressed by how much talking he'd already done.

"That's my guess," Missouri said, nodding. "Sometimes after a psychological trauma, the brain simply forgets how to do something like seeing, or speaking. There's nothing physically wrong, and he will probably recover in time." She squeezed Cas' shoulder lightly. "You are all welcome to stay here until you're ready to move on. I have a guest room upstairs."

Once they got Sam settled on the bed, Missouri brought them breakfast on a tray—oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar. Dean would have preferred eggs and bacon, but he wasn't about to complain. Sam's hands were shaking too hard for him to feed himself, so Dean spoon-fed him. "Open the hangar, Sammy!" he said, making buzzing sounds and waving the laden spoon in front of his face.

"Jerk," Sam said, and opened his mouth.

"Bitch," Dean replied. Cas, seated beside him at Sam's bedside, stared morosely at his untouched bowl. "You gotta eat too, man," Dean told him. "Don't make me do the airplane thing for you, too."

Cas stabbed his spoon into the oatmeal and ate a bite. He swallowed, then grimaced. "Look, I know it's not a burger, and I'm sorry," Dean told him, "but you need to eat." His voice softened. "You're human now, and we humans have to do things to take care of ourselves. Like eating. Aren't you hungry?"

"Try m-mixing the sugar in, ins-stead of just leaving it on top," Sam suggested.

Cas glanced at him, then nodded and did as he said, clumsily, spilling a little of the oatmeal over the side of the bowl. He scooped it back in with a finger, then licked it clean.

"Dean," Sam said, and Dean realized he'd been staring at Cas' mouth as he began shoveling the oatmeal in. Dean wrenched his attention back to his brother and resumed feeding him.

When the three of them had finished, Dean stood to take the empty bowls downstairs. Cas stood up as well, reaching to take hold of his arm again. "No, hang on," Dean said, "someone's gotta stay here with Sam." Cas pulled on Dean's arm, tugging him back down in his seat. "Cas, come on. If we don't rinse the bowls now—oatmeal is like cement when it dries, it'll be hell to wash if we wait."

Sam heaved a sigh. "I won't die if you go downstairs for a minute," he said. "I swear, I'll be fine. This is not a big deal." He grimaced and curled in on himself, another tremor rippling along his spine. "I'll be fine," he repeated, strained.

Cas looked from Sam to Dean, his indecision painted all over his face, then slowly, deliberately released his grip on Dean and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took Sam's hand, wincing as the other man's grip squeezed his fingers.

Dean hesitated, finding himself suddenly reluctant to leave, before willing himself to head downstairs with the tray. In the kitchen, Missouri looked up from her own bowl. "Oh, how sweet of you," she said. "You didn't have to do that, I would have come up and got it myself when I was finished with my own breakfast."

Dean sighed. "And saved us all a lot of strife," he commented, placing the bowls in the sink. "Cas didn't want me to leave him long enough to come down here, but I wanted him to watch Sam."

"Those boys are both so lucky to have you," she said.

Dean turned on the tap, filling the bowls with water to soak. "Yeah, well, I've taken care of Sammy my whole life," he said.

"And Castiel?"

He hesitated. "I haven't always been as good to him as I should," he admitted. "He's always tried to do what he thought was right, even if his means weren't always.... I'm trying, too."

"It seems to me that you're doing all right," Missouri said. "If I may ask...what is he to you?"

"My friend," Dean answered immediately, firmly. "He's like a brother. He's saved my life so many times, but I'd be happy to die for him."

Missouri was silent for a long moment, then asked quietly, "Does he know how you feel about him?" Dean looked up at her, startled, and saw her eyes widen slightly. "Do _you_ know how you feel about him?"

Dean realized the water was still running, the three bowls long filled to the brim. He shut the tap off. "I should get back upstairs," he muttered. He walked past her without meeting her eyes.

Back upstairs, he found Sam curled in the fetal position on the bed, Cas still holding his hand with tears once more streaming down his face. "What did you say to him?" Dean demanded, as Cas stood and threw himself at Dean, wrapping his arms around Dean's neck.

"Nothing," Sam gritted. "I've been lying here trying not to scream."

"You can scream," Dean told him. "I think Missouri will understand."

"D-didn't want to scare you," Sam said.

"Little late for that," Dean replied dryly. "You're scaring me to death. I hate seeing you in pain. Both of you. It kills me, you know that? This kills me." He hugged Cas tighter and pressed his face into the other man's hair. "Please," he murmured. "Let me know what I can do to help you." Cas' only response was to pull himself closer against Dean, kind of nuzzling in at his neck.

Dean could feel Cas' heartbeat if he concentrated. It was steady, reassuring, and for the first time in far too many hours, Dean found himself relaxing—and nearly fell over, as exhaustion hit him with full force. "Holy shit, do I need a nap," he muttered.

Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from Cas. "I'm just gonna lie down for a couple hours," he said. "Cas, can you watch Sam?" At Cas' distressed look, he hastened to add, "Relax, I'm not going anywhere! Just gonna take the other side of the bed." He moved around it and sat down on the opposite side from Sam as Cas watched intently. "Okay," he said, "I'll even give you permission to watch me sleep this time, because I'm pretty sure you're going to anyway." Cas' expression flickered, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over his lips. Dean grinned back at him. "Really, though, you should watch Sam. And don't even think about not waking me up if you need anything. Either of you. For any reason."

"We got it, Dean," Sam said. "I'll try not to scream too much."

"You scream as much as you need to," Dean mumbled, kicking off his boots and lying down. He was out as soon as he shut his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares welled up immediately, as though they had been lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity. They were disconnected images at first, the sorts of fragments that had been with Dean ever since Hell: the heat, the screams, the blood that surged up at the point of his blade as he sliced into another damned soul. Then the fragments joined, and he could see where he was; the poor bastard was sliced to ribbons, and he moved on to the next rack.

The demons brought the victim in and fastened him down, splayed out in front of Dean like a feast, sweat-drenched bare skin and brimming blue eyes. Dean's arm moved without his control, and then it was no longer blood that spilled out along his knife, but blinding white light. He tried to stop, tried to scream, tried to force his fingers to open and drop the blade, but they refused to obey as he carved into the angel's chest.

Inside there was only empty space, and Dean couldn't open his hand but he managed to turn it, pressing the point of the blade to his own sternum and slicing deep. He cut out his own heart and placed it, throbbing weakly and dripping his life's blood, into Castiel's open chest. Then he pressed the sundered flesh back together over it and kissed the wound until it mended. It never mended.

He woke with a start. Cas and Sam were right where they had been, but in the time Dean had slept, something had changed. Sam lay relaxed, his face drawn but no longer contorted in pain. Cas lounged in the chair beside the bed, his feet propped up on the edge, his expression serene.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, shaking his head to clear away the remnants of the dream. Already it was fading from his memory. Just another nightmare left over from his time in the Pit.

"Missouri gave us some," Sam gestured vaguely, "herbal tea. Said it was a secret blend. Like psychic morphine, right, Cas?" Cas nodded. "And it works, too. I just needed a couple sips before I started feeling better. Cas drank the rest of it."

Dean frowned, sitting up. "Psychic morphine? What, she gave you like a, a supernatural narcotic?" He looked into Sam's eyes, noting the slack pupils, the lethargic way his gaze trailed after Dean as he moved. And Cas had had more than Sam. "And you thought that was a good idea, why? Because your past experience with supernatural narcotics was so stable and controlled?"

"I thought it was a good idea because I was hurting, Dean," Sam said. "Couldn't see straight. And now I can." He shuddered, and frowned. "Doesn't stop the shakes, though."

"Okay," Dean said. "I'm glad you're feeling better, really. I'm just worried about you, Sammy. I think this is a dangerous road for you. And Cas—why'd _you_ drink the stuff?" They may have averted the apocalypse, but the thought of Cas on drugs made Dean's stomach twist unpleasantly.

"He's in pain, too," Sam said. Cas lifted a hand, tensed into a claw, and made a slashing motion at his own chest. Dean had a split-second memory flash of his dream, Castiel's empty ribcage, and winced.

"Please don't take any more," he said. "Either of you. Okay?"

Sam rolled over onto his stomach, stretching out. "The pain might kill me if I don't," he said calmly, "but okay. Since it's what you want, Dean."

"Don't be like that," Dean said. "Of course I don't want you to die, and I don't want you to be in pain, but this is risky and you know it. I don't wanna see you lose control again, and have to lock you in the dungeon while you detox."

Cas snickered, then quickly sobered when Dean turned a glare in his direction. "And you. Cas, this isn't you. I'd rather have you sober than fucked out of your head on this shit." Cas pouted, and Dean knew that should not have been a more convincing argument than Sam's, it really shouldn't. Dean felt his resolve weakening, and stood up, clearing his throat and his mind before he said or did something dumb. "I'm going to go talk to Missouri and see if she has an antidote."

"You can't," Sam informed his pillow.

"What do you mean, I can't?" Dean demanded. Cas mimed driving a car. "What, she left? Great."

"Said she had some shopping to do," Sam confirmed.

"Damn it," Dean muttered, sitting back down beside Cas.

Almost in slow motion, Cas leaned toward him until he was pressed up against Dean's side again. "You still wanna cuddle?" Dean asked, surprised. "I thought—I mean, with the tea—"

"He thinks drugs are a substitute for physical affection, and _we're_ the ones with the problem?" Sam said to no one in particular.

Dean flushed. "That's not what I meant. I just—"

"Dean, he's not being clingy because it makes the pain go away. He's hugging you 'cause he wants to hug you. Dumbass."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I don't like you on drugs," he said. Cas slipped his arms around Dean's waist, and Dean hugged him back instinctually. It really was more pleasant than it was a burden, and part of Dean was glad that the spiritual painkiller hadn't eliminated Cas' evident desire to be close to him.

Sam let out a soft snore. Dean couldn't blame him; he'd been through more than Dean had, and it had been longer since he slept. Leaning over, he untied Sam's boots and carefully pulled them off. Cas watched him neutrally, waiting for Dean to settle back in his chair before cuddling up to him again.

Dean had fallen into a sort of trance, listening to Sam's snores and Cas' quiet breath, by the time the sound of Missouri's car returning roused him. He gently, reluctantly, disentangled himself from Cas' embrace, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and headed downstairs. He caught Missouri coming through the door, her arms laden with groceries, and took one of the bags from her.

"Please don't give my brother drugs," he said by way of greeting. "Or Cas. I know you meant to help, but Sam has a history, and Cas has a future. "

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyebrows raised. "It's not addictive, the tea, but I won't give them any more if you think that's best. Did you say Cas has a _future?_ "

"It's kinda complicated," Dean began, wincing. That was a dumb thing to let slip.

"Well, aren't you a little prescient," she said, teasing but not mocking.

"A few years back, a douchebag angel zapped me into the future," Dean told her. "It wasn't nice."

"The future isn't set in stone," she reminded him, setting her paper bag on the kitchen counter. "Someone who averted an apocalypse or two ought to realize that."

He shrugged uncomfortably. Maybe they weren't headed for a Croatoan-filled dystopia, but he didn't want to take any chances with Cas. He began to unload his bag of groceries onto the counter, following Missouri's lead. The first item out was a package of hamburger buns, followed by several cartons of strawberries. "Are we having a cookout?" he asked, his curiosity aroused.

"I thought it would be nice to have some comfort food tonight," she said. "Good old American hamburgers, and a strawberry pie for dessert. How does that sound?"

Dean stared at her. "I could kiss you," he said.

She chuckled. "No, thank you. But you could start washing and hulling the strawberries for me." Dean obediently opened the cartons and rinsed them under the tap. "Set the nice-looking ones aside. Any of them that have mushy spots but aren't moldy, any that are small or have funny shapes, throw them in the blender."

Missouri started mixing the dough for the crust, which didn't take long; she had wrapped it in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge by the time Dean finished with the strawberries. Missouri put those in the fridge as well. "The crust needs to chill for 15 minutes," she told him. "Then we'll roll it out and bake it. The filling goes in after."

A faint noise from upstairs drew Dean's attention, and he dropped his knife on the counter with a clatter. He cursed himself for being so selfish as to spend so long away from Sam and Cas. There was another sound, louder this time—a sort of muffled grunt, and Dean was racing up the stairs, heart pounding. He burst into the spare room to find Sam awake, curled in on himself in agony. Cas was leaning over him, holding him by the shoulders and looking scared.

"Sammy!" Dean said, reaching for him. Sam reached back, but his hands were spasming, fingers tensed into claws and he couldn't grip Dean's hands. "What's wrong? What do you need?"

"T-tea's w-wearing off," Sam managed, shaking.

"I'll get you some more," Dean said, all his earlier arguments forgotten. Sam was in pain. How could Dean deny him relief? How could he even think of doing that to his own brother?

Sam was shaking his head, thrashing from side to side to distinguish it from the random uncontrollable motion of his body. "No. I don't need it, I d-don't—"

"Clearly you do," Dean argued.

"W-what if this is j-just the withdrawal? What if this happens every time I d-drink it, and it will g-go away soon? I c-can—" He twisted away from them violently, retching up something black and foul.

"Whoa. Jeez," Dean muttered, petting Sam's hair. Cas had a hand on Sam's spine, rubbing slowly; he glanced at Dean, and the worry in his eyes made Dean's stomach clench in fear. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy," he heard himself saying, and wanted to cry.

Together, Dean and Cas pulled the bedspread out from under Sam and got him settled again. Dean balled the blanket up. "I'll, uh, I'll go wash this," he said. "It'll just be a minute, I'll be right back. Cas—" He bit his tongue on the rest of what he wanted to say. _Keep Sam alive until I get back. Keep him in one piece._

"Uh, Missouri? Where's your washing machine?" Dean asked, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He didn't want to bring the thing near food.

She set down whatever she was working on and came over. "What happened?" she asked, peering at the bundle of cloth. "Is Sam all right?"

"He got sick," Dean said. "Sorry. I wanna get it into the wash before it stains."

Carefully, she took it from him, unfolding it to look at the black sludge. "Oh, this is no good," she said. "This is—don't bother washing it, it needs to be burned. Did you get any on you?"

"Why?" Dean demanded. "What is it? This—this came outta Sam, is he gonna be okay?" His voice was rising. He fought to quell his panic.

"He'll be fine. This is a good thing, that his body is expelling the corruption. It would have happened anyway, all at once, if he'd completed the Trials." She folded up the bedspread again and took it from him. "I'll take care of this, don't you worry. You get back to your brother and your friend."

"Thank you," Dean said, and meant it.

Sam was still shaking violently when Dean returned. Cas sat beside the bed, petting Sam like a skittish animal. He looked up as Dean stepped into the room, and mimed drinking a cup of tea, then shook his head. Dean knew what he meant: Cas had drunk the tea as well; what Sam was going through wasn't withdrawal from the drug.

"I know," Dean told him. "Missouri said it's like corruption, leaving his body. Would've happened anyway...the Trials, he would've...I mean, it would have killed him, so I guess it doesn't matter what would have happened anyway." He wasn't making much sense, and he knew it. He was just talking to fill the silence. Sam couldn't speak, shaking as hard as he was, and Cas had forgotten how.

Dean sat in the chair next to Cas, wrapping an arm around him, as much for his own support as for Cas'. Cas' body was warm and comforting against his side, and when he looked at Dean with his eyes red and swollen, full of fear for Sam and grief for himself, Dean couldn't help but kiss him on the forehead. Cas sighed, closing his eyes, and Dean kissed his eyelids too, a light brush of his lips over each one. Then Cas tipped his face up and pressed his mouth against Dean's, gently, and Dean kissed back, just as gentle.

Dean wasn't sure when he'd closed his own eyes, but he opened them to find Cas looking at him, his expression calm. He was still stroking Sam's hair; Sam, still shaking, was smirking up at them both with as much smugness as he could manage. Dean scowled at him. "What?" he snapped, defensive. "It's Cas, okay?" It was Cas. Dean would do anything to comfort Cas when he was in pain. He could deal with doing something kinda gay like kissing him, if it would make Cas feel better.

Huh. He kissed Cas.

Cas smiled, just a little, like he could read Dean's mind and was amused by his train of thought, and Dean felt justified for everything he'd ever done, because he made Cas smile again. And he kissed him again, another quick press of lips, because Cas' eyes were still red and puffy and Dean didn't actually need to justify his actions to anybody, so he kissed Cas again just because he wanted to.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been kissing Cas, and he's not sure how long he would have kept kissing him, but Cas stopped first. He pulled back, barely enough space that their faces weren't touching, and exhaled, a slow, shuddering breath. He shut his eyes, fresh tears leaking from under his eyelids.

"Hey," Dean said, alarmed. "Hey, Cas, what is it? Are you okay? What do you need?" He took an unsteady breath. "Do you not like the kissing? Because we can stop that, if you don't like it. Or if you do, we can do more of that."

Cas punched him. Not hard; it was a glancing blow off Dean's shoulder that he barely felt, but Cas was glaring at him now like Dean had insulted his mother. He opened his mouth like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out, and the look on his face mirrored the frustration Dean felt.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. "Whatever I said wrong, or did, I'm sorry." Belatedly, he rubbed his shoulder where Cas hit him. "Ow."

Cas shook his head. He clenched his hands in the front of Dean's shirt and leaned in, his spine curving until his forehead was pressed to Dean's sternum, and he stayed there, crying silently. Dean carefully wrapped his arms around the other man.

"D-D-Dean," Sam got out. "Y-y-y-y-you—" That was as much as he could manage, tremors wracking his frame.

"Hey, it's okay," Dean said, his arms tightening instinctively around Cas. "Relax, Sammy. Don't hurt yourself." He bit his lip for a second, then released Cas and stood. "You know what, this is bullshit." It came out more venomous than he intended, but he was too stressed to regret it. Sam was shaking apart and Dean wasn't going to sit there and let it happen. He pulled away from Cas' reaching hands and stomped downstairs.

"I changed my mind," he told Missouri without preamble. "Sam needs more of that tea shi—stuff." He caught the swear, barely—it wasn't polite, Missouri was a _lady_ , and Dean was angry at himself that he came that close to slipping, and it was a mark of how worried he was that he'd already lost so much control.

Missouri, to her credit, didn't question his change of heart, she just put the kettle on to boil, then pulled a jar of herbs out of the closet and spooned some into a tea strainer. "Let it steep for a couple minutes before you give it to him," she said, "or it won't be strong enough to do much good. But if you let it get too strong, it can cause temporary clairvoyance, which can be overwhelming if—"

"I won't let it get too strong," he cut her off, then winced. "Sorry. I'm a little stressed." He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Understandable," she said. She poured the hot water over the strainer and handed the mug to Dean. "If you need anything else, let me know." Reaching up, she lightly patted Dean's cheek.

"Yeah," Dean said, feeling slightly awkward. "Thanks." He retreated back upstairs, cup clutched safely in his hands.

Cas gave him a look when Dean came back into the room, one too full of meanings and emotions for Dean to parse right now. He tried not to wince as he ignored it and sat on the edge of the bed, setting the mug on the nightstand and helping Sam into a sitting position. His brother clung to him, hands fisting in Dean's shirt to stop himself from shaking. Dean shushed him, stroking his hair and feeling his heart break.

He reached over with one hand to pull the tea strainer out of the mug, setting it on the bare wood of the nightstand and hoping Missouri would forgive him if it left a stain. He blew gently on the surface to cool it, then held it to Sam's lips. "Drink," he said. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy." He tipped the mug up, carefully, letting Sam slurp at the hot liquid, trying not to spill it.

After the first couple sips, Sam's fingers uncurled, the tension in his body easing. He still shook a little, but he sat up and took the mug from Dean and drank deeply. Dean watched, amazed, as he visibly relaxed with each swallow, until he lowered the cup and sighed. "Oh, God," Sam said, his voice nearly a moan as Dean took the mug back. "That is the best feeling. Absence of pain. I feel so amazing right now." He settled in against Dean's shoulder, grinning. Dean stroked his hair, his own tension fading away with the relief of knowing Sam was okay, for now. Vaguely, he realized that he was kind of cuddling his brother, and that was kind of weird at their age, but...he was always gonna take care of Sam, so _weird_ could bite him.

Cas made a noise in the back of his throat and reached for the cup. "No," Dean said, pulling it out of his reach with a frown. "I thought we talked about this. You don't need it like Sam does, and I—" He cut himself off. He'd been about to say, _I don't like you stoned_ , but it sounded incredibly selfish in his head. "I don't think it's good for you," he said instead.

Cas shrugged and sat back, looking less than happy, but he didn't look like he wanted to argue. Dean set the mug back on the nightstand. "Hey," he said. "I know you're hurting. I'm sorry. But you can get through this without drugs. We'll help you, Sam and me."

Cas nodded, his lips curving in a small smile. Dean reached out instinctively, taking his hand and gripping it, tangling their fingers together.

Sam cleared his throat. "So," he said. "You and Cas." It was kind of a question, but not really.

Dean shrugged, looking to Cas, who nodded. "I guess so," he said. "Me and Cas."

"That's good," Sam said. "I'm happy for you. Does this mean you're gonna stop with all the intense staring conte—oh. No, I guess not." He heaved an exasperated sigh, and Dean blinked, realizing he had been gazing into Cas' eyes for the past minute or so.

"Yeah, no," Dean replied. "Why would we stop that? Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam said, as Cas grinned and leaned over to kiss Dean.

It was way more of a kiss than the earlier chaste kisses, and Dean found himself pulling away from Sam to hold onto Cas, his hands cupping the other man's face—actually, kind of clinging on for dear life as Cas' tongue pushed into his mouth, probing and claiming and it might possibly have been the best kiss of Dean's life.

"Whoa," Sam said, but he didn't sound impressed or grossed out or anything Dean would have expected a _Whoa_ from him to sound like. He sounded accusatory, and Dean broke the kiss, frowning, to find Sam glaring at Cas, who had picked up the mug from the nightstand and was bringing it to his lips.

"Are you kidding me," Dean said, his words echoing strangely in his own ears as Cas took a deep drink. He felt simultaneously hot and cold, his gut churning with an uncomfortable mix of emptiness and nausea. "Did you seriously just." He couldn't even complete the sentence. Cas kissed him to distract him. So what was the kissing earlier about? The set-up, so Dean would be receptive to Cas' trick?

"Not cool, Cas," Sam said. "Here's a tip. Anything you learn from Meg probably isn't a good thing to do to people you like." Cas at least had the grace to look a little guilty, but he kept drinking until the mug was empty.

Dean stood up abruptly. "I need some air," he said. He headed for the door, hoping to make it downstairs before the mounting lightheadedness made it hard to walk straight.

"Dean, wait," Sam said, but Dean kept moving, tripping down the stairs and stumbling when he hit the landing. He heard Sam following, moving more slowly, and he turned to glare as Sam came down the stairs after him.

"You should stay in bed," he said.

"I've spent all day in bed," Sam countered. "I'm feeling better now. But you're not. Just slow down for a second, and breathe. Cas needs—"

"I don't care what Cas needs!" Dean snapped.

"You don't mean that," Sam said, and it was annoying how right he was.

Dean grimaced. "No. I don't, but I'm fucking pissed."

"What happened?" Missouri appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel.

"Dean thinks Cas took advantage of Dean's feelings for him to get drugs," Sam said calmly. "I think Cas truly reciprocates Dean's affections but he was in too much pain to think of the ramifications of his actions."

"I hate you on drugs," Dean reminded him.

Missouri glanced from Dean to Sam, and then to Cas, who was standing on the stairs, looking a little too calm. "It might benefit us to hear Cas' perspective," she said, "however much he can tell us."

Cas shrugged and pointed at Sam. He looked at Dean with something a little like contrition on his face, but his eyes took a little too long to focus on Dean's.

"Of course he's gonna say Sam's right," Dean said. "His version is the one where Cas doesn't come off as a tremendous douchebag. But it doesn't change the fact that one of the very first things you did as a human was to deceive the one person who cares about you most in the world." He paused, breathing hard through his nose, anger creeping in and staining the edges of his vision. "Which, you know, you did as an angel too. But I kinda hoped we were past that, after everything we've been through."

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Sam broke. "I care about Cas too," he said, comfortably oblivious to the awkwardness that pervaded the air around them. "I mean, not the way you do, clearly, I'm not about to make out with him, but I think you need to cut him some slack. Just ‘cause you couldn't see it the way you could with me, doesn't mean his pain wasn't real. So he saw a way to make it go away. He's still learning how to be a human, so give him a break, give him a chance to learn."

Dean shut his eyes and counted to ten. Sam was making a kind of sense, which was impressive considering that he'd had more than twice as much tea as the first time. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "I'll let this one go. Just..." He looked at Cas. "Don't pull shit like that again. And don't kiss me unless you mean it." Once the words were out of his mouth, he realized that's what really hurt, more than the thought of being used—the thought that Cas hadn't meant anything by it, when Dean had wanted him since.... He cut off that train of thought, because it was benefiting no one and was remarkably adolescent.

Cas stepped off the stairs, moving to Dean and leaning in to kiss him again. Dean ducked back. "Did you hear what I just said?" Cas nodded, his eyes earnest, and Dean shut his own eyes because he couldn't stand to look at Cas as he pushed him away. "Don't kiss me when you're stoned," he said, and it hurt, _hurt_ to not just take the easy way and make it all better when Cas was right there, offering it, but this wasn't a concession Dean was willing to make, even for himself.

Cas nodded and stepped away. He looked sad, when Dean dared to open his eyes again, but he wasn't crying. Dean didn't know if he honestly accepted the restriction, or his reaction was muted by the drug. Every step back that Cas took felt like a knife twisting between Dean's ribs, and he heard himself saying without conscious thought, "You can still hug me, though."

It was a bit like a drug addiction of his own. Some part of Dean just felt wrong when he wasn't in physical contact with Cas. As the other man wrapped his arms around Dean again, he felt the tension bleed from his spine. "Okay," he breathed. "We're okay now, right?"

"Good," Sam said, a little too loudly. "Do you have any idea how hard it is, trying to stay lucid and deal with the drama while I'm on the morphine tea? Jesus." He sat down on the bottom step, leaning against the wall. "I feel like my brain is melting out my ears here, and having to play relationship counselor to my brother and his..." He squinted up at Cas. "Whoa."

"Whoa what?" Dean demanded, tightening his grip on Cas. "Do you see something, Sam?"

His brother shook his head. "I think I'm tripping," he said.

Missouri _tsk_ ed at them. "You left the tea strainer in too long," she scolded. "Come on, Sam, let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

He blinked at her. "This is fine," he said. "The walls are marshmallow."

"No, dear, they're not," she said gently, helping him to his feet, where he swayed alarmingly. Dean stepped forward to grab him and help him to the couch. "You just rest, now, Sam," she said. "Don't worry about anything you might see." With another stern look at Dean, she left the three of them alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean tried to help Missouri with lunch, but she deflected all his attempts. "You're guests in my house," she insisted.

"Uninvited ones," he pointed out, but she waved that aside and served them sandwiches all by herself. Sam was feeling well enough to sit at the kitchen table, and most of the things he said made sense. It made Dean wonder, if Cas could speak, what sorts of insightful nonsense he'd be spouting as a result of the narcotic tea.

There was a part of Dean that wished Cas could tell him what was going through his head. There was a part of him, a part that the _no chick-flick moments_ part was steadfastly trying to pretend didn't exist, that wanted to ask Cas about the kissing, about what it meant to him—because Cas had seemed to be saying that he meant it, but Dean didn't know _what_ he meant. This was the guy who had shoved his tongue down Meg's throat just because he saw it on TV, and either he could passionately kiss people he felt nothing for, or he _had_ cared for Meg, and either possibility made Dean's gut churn in twisting doubt. He set his half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, his appetite wilting.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Missouri leaned over and pressed her hand to his forehead. Dean barely kept from flinching away from the unexpected touch. "You're sure you didn't get any of that black stuff on your skin?"

"Yeah," Dean said quickly. "Guess I'm just not hungry." Missouri seemed satisfied with both his temperature and his answer.

"My brother has been replaced by a pod person," Sam mournfully informed nobody in particular.

Cas reached over suddenly and brushed his fingers over Dean's cheekbone. Dean caught his hand, embarrassed, and brought it back down to the table top as Cas stared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Cas' sandwich was still untouched on his plate. "You gotta eat too," Dean said. "We talked about this."

Cas interlaced their fingers, his eyes not leaving Dean's face. With his other hand, he picked up the sandwich and brought it to his mouth. Dean couldn't help but smile a little as he picked up the rest of his own sandwich.

After lunch, Dean insisted on being allowed to do the dishes while Sam and Cas wandered back into the living room. When he finished cleaning up, Dean found Sam sprawled in an armchair while Cas sat on the floor, tracing invisible patterns on the carpet with a fingertip. He jumped up when Dean sat on the couch and settled himself against Dean's side, his head on Dean's shoulder and his arms wrapped around Dean's waist.

"Hey," Dean said. "Missed you too." He turned his head to bury his nose in Cas' hair. The other man smelled a little bit...well, he smelled a little. Dean cleared his throat. "I think Missouri will probably give us towels, if you wanna shower," he said.

Cas sat up a little, looking at Dean with a sort of mischievous light in his eyes.

"What?" Dean asked. "What did I say?"

Cas waggled his eyebrows.

Dean felt his face heat. "I, uh," he said eloquently. "I didn't mean, uh...not like—I didn't mean we should shower together, dude."

Cas leaned back on the sofa, looking disappointed, and Dean felt so awkward he wanted to crawl out of his skin. It wasn't that he _didn't_ want to have sex with Cas, exactly, but he hadn't actually intended the suggestion as a proposition. He knew that eventually this thing with Cas, whatever it was, this relationship, would involve gay sex, and Dean had never been one to shy away from sex of any sort, but the idea of...well, to put it bluntly, the idea of putting his dick in Castiel's butt struck him as extremely profane. Even if Cas was no longer an angel, he was something special, something holy—he had rescued Dean from Hell, he had been and always would be Dean's angel, and Dean didn't want to debase him with something as mundane as his own flesh.

"If you angst any harder, you'll have a stroke," Sam said tranquilly, and Dean jumped; he'd forgotten Sam was in the room. "Not saying my problems are worse than yours, dude, but it's really not worth getting yourself all worked up over."

"What's not worth it?" Dean countered. "How would you know?"

"That thing you're thinking about," Sam said vaguely, not meeting Dean's eyes.

A chill tightened Dean's spine, the hair prickling on the back of his neck. "And how exactly do you know what I'm thinking about?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Must be the tea," Sam said. "In my defense, I wasn't trying to. You were thinking really loudly."

"The tea," Dean repeated. " _MISSOURI!_ "

She came running into the room. "What is it? What's happened?"

It took a few deep breaths before Dean was calm enough to speak. "You didn't tell me that the tea would make Sam able to read my mind."

Her jaw dropped. "He can _what?_ That's highly unusual for someone with no previous telepathic ability!"

"He _has_ previous telepathic ability!" Dean said. "He used to drink demon blood and kill demons with his brain!"

Missouri just looked at him.

"I don't do that anymore," Sam put in.

"Well, that's good," Missouri said. "If I had known, i would have warned you about the tea. I'm afraid there's no immediate way to reverse it, but the mind-reading will wear off when the other effects of the drug do. In the meantime, I suggest you keep your thoughts quiet, and try not to think about boring things."

"Try _not_ to think about boring things?" Dean repeated, confused.

"Yes," Missouri said. "For instance, you probably shouldn't think about elephants."

Dean thought about elephants. "Oh," he said. "I get it." He shouldn't try not to think about things that he didn't want Sam to hear, because he would end up thinking about them. Like sex with Cas. He had already been thinking about sex with Cas, and Sam had already heard, and now he was thinking about it again _God damn it_. "Elephants," he muttered. His face burned. Elephants, big and gray, lumbering animals with tusks and trunks and wrinkly knees. Not at all sexy. Not like Cas... "This isn't working," he grumbled.

"Don't worry, it will probably wear off soon," Missouri said, a little too cheerfully for Dean's liking, and headed back to the kitchen.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't _want_ to hear your thoughts," Sam said.

"Yeah, well," Dean said. "Try listening to Cas instead of me." He nearly jumped out of his seat as an idea struck. "Dude! Listen to Cas' thoughts and tell me what he's thinking, ‘cause he can't talk!"

"Dude, _no_ ," Sam said. "He's thinking about the same shit you were. I am _not_ going to relay your boyfriend's dirty thoughts to you. I don't even want to be hearing it myself. Ugh, Cas, _stop_." He screwed up his face in disgust. "That's my brother, dude! I don't want to know how you wanna—ew. La la la la la la..." He put his hands over his ears and sang. Cas shrugged.

"Does that help?" Dean wanted to know.

"Nope," Sam said. "And I can still hear you, too. Listening to one person doesn't block out another. Ugh, God, I'm never drinking that tea again."

"You'll get no argument from me," Dean told him.

Cas tugged on Dean's shoulder until he sat back on the couch again. Cas resumed leaning on him, pulling Dean's arm around his shoulders. "Hey, dude," Dean said, "Not that this isn't nice and all, but I'm not really a cuddler—"

"He's lying," Sam said.

Dean glared at him. "How would you know? It's not like I ever cuddled you! Stop being creepy."

"I can read your mind," Sam reminded him, apparently unclear on the concept of creepy. "Lies smell chalky."

"You can smell thoughts, too? Like some kind of telepathic synaesthesia?" Dean said. "Wow. You are one special kind of freak, Sammy."

Sam looked hurt. "Hey. I didn't ask for Yellow-Eyes to give me his blood, okay? It's not my fault I had previous telepathic ability! Besides, _you're_ the one who left the tea strainer in too long."

"You're right," Dean said. "I'm sorry." Cas sort of nuzzled him. Dean tried not to think about how nice it felt.

"You know what, dude, that kind of thought doesn't smell a whole lot better," Sam said, and Dean blushed. "Why don't you try meditating? Just, you know, clear your mind."

"Okay," Dean said. He tried to clear his mind, closing his eyes and mentally humming _om_. Soon, though, the humming picked up a melody, and he found himself working his way through Led Zeppelin's "Houses of the Holy" in his head.

"That's good," Sam murmured. "Keep doing that. It's relaxing. You're a much better singer when you don't sing out loud, you know."

_Fuck you_ , Dean thought cheerfully, and Sam grinned.

He was right about it being relaxing; Dean figured it was as good as meditation, for him, and he found himself coming out of a nearly trance-like state a good while later when he felt Cas' lips on his neck. Frowning, he turned to scold Cas for breaking his promise not to kiss Dean while he was high.

He caught a split-second glimpse of Cas' eyes, clear and bright, before the other man's mouth was on his, tongue pushing between Dean's lips. Dean couldn't really help kissing back for a second, and then another, and another...it felt nice, _damn_ but it felt nice. He jerked back because if he didn't, he'd just keep kissing Cas. "Hey," he said, a little breathless, "we agreed. No kissing while stoned."

"He's sober, Dean," Sam said quietly. Dean's head snapped around to find Sam curled up in his chair, as much as his long limbs would fit, his face drawn. "Tea's worn off."

"Oh," Dean said, feeling foolish. Cas' eyes were clear, for a fraction of a moment, before he blinked. His eyelashes were damp, increasingly so. Dean pulled him in again, gently, and kissed him. It felt like reuniting. "Missed you," he murmured, his lips close enough to brush Cas' when he spoke. "You're not you when you're high."

Cas made a noise in his throat, short and high. Dean couldn't have said what it meant, not when Cas was burying his face against Dean's neck so Dean couldn't read his expression. "I'm glad you're back," Dean continued. "The real you."

Cas drew back, shaking his head. He looked frustrated, or angry, as he thumped a hand against his chest, over his heart, then struck Dean in the same place. It didn't hurt, only pushed him back a couple inches before Cas grabbed the front of Dean's shirt and closed the distance between them, stopping just short of kissing him again, his eyes narrowed.

"Cas, I don't—I don't understand," Dean said. "I don't know what you're trying to tell me."

Sam sighed audibly. "Dean, you can be a real idiot s-sometimes."

Dean's head snapped up at the catch in his voice. "Are you okay?" he asked, standing. Sam wasn't shaking as he had been earlier, but his eyes were tight, as though he were trying not to grimace.

"It's not as bad as it was," Sam said. "Comes in waves. I think—" His jaw clenched, his whole body jerking slightly. "I think I'm getting better."

Dean grimaced. "What can I do?"

"Nothing." Sam huffed a laugh. "Unless you want me reading your mind again. I think I can get through it without the t-tea. It's not nearly as bad."

Cas stood too, pushing past Dean to kneel in front of Sam. He took Sam's head in both his hands, and Dean felt a weird twist of discomfort. "What are you doing?"

"I would also like to know that," Sam put in, eyeing Cas with mild alarm, but he wasn't pulling back.

Cas pressed his fingertips gently against Sam's temples and started rubbing in small circles. Sam gasped aloud. "Oh! Holy shit, Cas, that feels amazing."

"It helps?" Dean demanded.

"Hell yes," Sam said, his voice uncomfortably close to a moan.

"Um," Dean said.

"Relax, Dean," Sam said. "I'm not gonna steal your boyfriend. He's just making me feel really good right now."

"That's not exactly reassuring," Dean pointed out. "And he's not my boyfr..." Sam and Cas both turned withering glares on him, and he trailed off. "Uh, I mean. We haven't exactly put a label on it. But I guess if you wanna say he's my boyfriend, that's okay." He tried to pretend he couldn't feel that he was blushing.

Sam sighed happily, clearly not really paying attention to what Dean was saying. "Thanks, Cas," he said. "I owe you. Again."

Dean's heart clenched, remembering the last time Sam had been broken and Cas saved him. They both owed Cas so much. Dean reached out and gripped Cas' shoulder. When Cas glanced at him, Dean only gave him a squeeze and a slight smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner that night was an occasion. When Cas saw the burgers, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. Dean thought for a moment that he was about to dive headfirst for the serving platter, but he showed admirable self-restraint in calmly sitting down at the table, spreading his napkin on his lap and politely waiting to be served.

Dean had to admit, he understood where Cas was coming from. The burgers looked like the most perfect food ever created, and they smelled even better. Finally getting to sink his teeth into one was indescribably satisfying. The meat was perfectly grilled, tender and juicy, with a perfect balance of vegetables and half-melted cheese. Dean sat for a moment with a rivulet of juice from the tomato running down his chin, unable to summon the will to wipe it off because that would mean letting go of the sandwich in his hands.

Cas had already devoured half of his, making little happy noises the whole while, but he carefully set the remainder back on his plate to drag a fingertip up Dean's jaw to the corner of his mouth. Dean froze, a sudden onslaught of mental images involving Cas wiping other fluids from his lips rendering him momentarily insensible. Sam cleared his throat, loud enough to be pointed, although he wasn't looking at Dean or Cas, just intently forking salad from his plate into his mouth. Missouri just pretended she didn't see anything unusual.

During dessert, Dean simply didn't look at Cas. The pie was delicious, the sweetness of the strawberries perfectly mellowed by the whipped cream, but Dean knew he would not be able to keep his cool if he happened to glance up and see cream on Cas' lips. God, even the thought of it was making him blush, and it had been a good fifteen minutes since standing up had been a good idea.

After dinner, the three of them helped Missouri clean up in record time. It was early to go to sleep, but none of them had gotten enough sleep the night before, or during the naps they'd taken during the day.

"I'm okay, really," Sam grumbled, as Dean helped him unbutton his shirt.

"You're still shaking," Dean pointed out. "I'm not gonna let you slip and hit your head and drown in the shower. I promise I'll stay on this side of the shower curtain unless you need me."

Sam batted Dean's hands away from the open shirt and pulled it off himself. "I've got it from here," he said. "The undressing. It's fine."

"Thank God," Dean said, turning away as Sam started to take off his pants. He sat on the closed toilet seat and waited while Sam showered, then handed him a towel without looking.

An odd thought occurred to Dean. "Huh," he said aloud. "Cas never did have that shower, did he?"

Sam, wearing clean boxers, paused in the middle of towel-drying his hair. "Dean. I don't need to know what you two are planning on doing together, okay? If I wanted to know, I'd have more of that goddamn tea."

"Oh, dude, no!" Dean said quickly. "I didn't mean that! Just...I dunno, he's got to be getting pretty ripe by now. And you're the one who has to share a bed with him." They had agreed that Dean and Cas would take shifts on the living room couch, the other one sleeping beside Sam in the guest bed in case he needed anything.

"You know, I'll trade if you want," Sam said, not particularly enthusiastically.

"Yeah. Scale of one to ten, how's your pain?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, a little stiffly. "Seven, I guess."

"And you wanna add a sore back from sleeping on the couch to that? I don't think so. You take the bed."

Dean got Sam settled, and, after a goodnight kiss from Cas which lasted a little too long, given the fact that Sam was right there, and not nearly long enough in the opinion of certain parts of Dean's anatomy, headed downstairs to the living room. Missouri had provided him with a sheet, blanket, and pillow. It was better than nothing, but Dean was too tall to fully stretch out along the couch's length, and the cushions kind of sagged toward the back of the seat. He got as comfortable as he could, given the circumstances, lying on his back with one foot propped up on the other end of the couch, and the other leg dangling off the side. Exhaustion finally won out over discomfort, and he dropped into a light sleep.

Dean was woken abruptly, rather rudely, as the blanket was yanked off him. He scrambled to a sitting position, drawing up against the arm of the couch with his knees pulled up, and looked up to find Cas standing over him, wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and no shirt, holding the blanket loosely in one hand. "Jesus," Dean muttered, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear away the bleariness. "You scared me, Cas. You know there are better ways to wake a guy up?" He glanced at the glowing digital display under TV—dear God, was that an actual VCR?—and saw that it said 2:08. Cas wasn't supposed to trade places with him until three. "You're early," he said. "What's going on? Is Sam okay?"

Cas didn't nod or shake his head. He planted a knee on the sofa between Dean's thighs and a hand between his legs, low, the heel of his hand pressing just under Dean's balls, firm but unmoving. He stopped there, waiting for permission.

Dean forgot what breathing was. He managed a sort of squeak and, at Cas' questioning look, a frantic nod. Yes. "Yes," he gasped. He shifted his hips, pressing back down against Cas' hand, the other man's fingers rubbing between his cheeks through his boxers. "Yes, Cas, I want—oh, fuck." His dick was suddenly, emphatically on board with this turn of events.

Cas removed his hand, and Dean tried to suppress his whine of disappointment, he really did. His hands moved to Dean's hips, fingers curling under the waistband of his boxers, waiting again, and Dean raised his hips impatiently, covering Cas' hands with his own to pull them down and off. "Come on," he muttered. "I want it, come on!"

He reached to tug Cas' pants down, and oh. Cas was hard too, his cock swollen and dusky in the dim light and glistening at the tip, thicker than Dean's and curving up toward his belly. Length, Dean thought vaguely, was what guys tended to obsess over; self-esteem was proportional to how long a guy's cock was, but there was really something to be said for girth. It made Dean slightly nervous, to be honest; in his subconscious imaginings, he'd never pictured it that big, and he'd have to be stretched open more than he'd anticipated—not that that would ever stop him. His mouth was actually watering, embarrassingly, and he swallowed hard as Cas resettled himself on the sofa, naked, lining up their hips.

Dean's hands landed on Cas' waist, reflexively holding him as Cas pressed down, grazing his cock against Dean's, eliciting a moan. Dean spread his legs wider, rolling his hips up against Cas, but the other man shifted away, maddeningly. Dean bit back a curse, opting instead for a groan of frustration—and then Cas' hand was on his mouth, that same hand that had been rubbing at Dean's ass, three fingers pushing between Dean's lips and he curled his tongue around them, between them, and sucked as though they were Cas' cock in his mouth.

Cas made a sound for the first time, a needy little sort of moan, and Dean's cock twitched as Cas shut his eyes, ducking his head so Dean couldn't see his face, but he understood suddenly why Cas had pulled away. Dean knew that if it were Cas sucking on Dean's fingers like that, the stimulation to his cock would probably have made him come by now. He flushed, gratified and flattered as he redoubled his efforts on the digits until Cas withdrew them.

Cas looked up again, blue eyes locking with Dean's through the darkness as he pressed his slick fingers to Dean's hole. Dean shivered, sudden nervousness knotting his stomach, and he willed himself to relax. He'd never done this before, but God, he wanted it—wanted Cas inside him, wanted to be filled up by him. This was _right_ —the hesitation from earlier was gone, because he wasn't worthy to be inside Cas' body but Cas inside him, angel or not, that was a gift. That wasn't something Dean could ever bring himself to refuse.

The first finger slid in before Dean was fully aware of what was happening, and it wasn't as bad as he'd thought; a little weird-feeling, but he could get used to it. Then Cas stroked something inside that made Dean see stars, and he cried out and Cas pressed his other hand over Dean's mouth, silencing him until Dean kissed the palm of his hand. "Sorry," he whispered, "sorry, I'll be quiet. That felt—do that again, please." Cas did, and Dean bit his lip and clung to him, his hips rocking down onto Cas' finger. Cas added a second one, then, and Dean did his best to relax as Cas stretched him open, scissoring his fingers apart and rubbing over Dean's prostate until Dean begged him for more, and by the time Cas pressed the third finger in he was impatient. "Come on, Cas, please," he said. "Just fuck me already, I'm ready for it, okay?"

There was a strange fire in Cas' eyes as he withdrew his hand and lined up his cock, nudging at Dean's hole. Dean exhaled steadily, forcing the tension out of his muscles, and then Cas was inside him, sinking into Dean's body in one unrelenting thrust. Dean moaned, his body adjusting to the intrusion as he reflexively gripped Cas' biceps. It felt huge inside him, he was so full, and he wrapped his legs around Cas' waist and rolled his pelvis up against Cas. The other man made a strangled sound and gripped Dean's shoulder, his other hand slipping between them to wrap around Dean's cock, his hold firm and sure as he withdrew halfway and slammed back in.

Cas began to thrust in earnest, his pace brutal as he stroked Dean's cock, his hand matching the rhythm of his hips. Dean felt his cock twitch in Cas' grasp every time the other man's cock scraped over Dean's prostate, and his eyes were watering with pleasure, precome leaking down his shaft as Cas' fingers smeared it into his skin. "Cas," Dean gasped, "God—" and then he found he didn't know what to say. He'd wanted this so badly and he hadn't expected it to be like this, Cas pounding him into the sofa and wringing pleasure out of him.

It happened suddenly, jumping from _almost enough_ to _too much_ with a twist of Cas' hand on the upstroke, his thumb catching the bundle of nerves under the head before sweeping over the slit. Dean bit his lip to hold back his cry, clenching around Cas as he came, hard and sharp and devastating, spattering his own abdomen. He felt Cas' cock twitch, pulsing as the other man's thrusts stilled and he spilled inside Dean, groaning deep in his chest.

Dean wasn't sure when he'd closed his eyes, but he opened them and winced as Cas pulled out. Cas reached for his pajama pants, handing Dean's boxers to him; Dean stood up to pull them on, and the clock on the VCR caught his eye. 2:56. It was about time for his shift watching over Sam. He turned back to Cas, mouth half-open to say something, he wasn't sure what. Cas was rearranging the sheet on the couch, fixing it from where they'd rucked it up between the cushions. He glanced up at Dean, then nodded towards the stairs.

"Yeah," Dean said, feeling horribly awkward. "Guess I better go upstairs." He paused, still, unsure whether he should kiss Cas goodnight again. They hadn't even kissed the whole time they were having sex. Was that weird? Dean wasn't sure. He felt weird. "Uh, goodnight," he said, and fled.

Sam raised his head sleepily as Dean came into the guest room. "Hey," he mumbled, then blinked hard and frowned. "Are you crying? What's going on?"

"What? No." Dean swiped a hand over his face. It came away wet, and Dean was sure _that_ was weird. "I'm just tired. Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"Okay," Sam said, evidently still sleepy enough not to argue.

Dean walked around to the other side of the bed and lay down, feeling vaguely not-right. He took a deep breath, slowly, and exhaled. His pillow smelled like Cas.

*****

The piercing banshee-shriek of a tea kettle jarred Dean awake again. He dimly registered the sunlight filtering through the curtains as he flailed out of bed, tripping over his feet as he tried to disentangle himself from the sheets.

"Dean!" Sam said, clearly having just woken up himself, his eyes wide with adrenaline. "Slow down, man—" But Dean was out the door, stumbling down the hallway and down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the kitchen.

Missouri raised an eyebrow at him as she set down the kettle on the stove. Cas had his hands wrapped around a mug.

"Look," Dean said. "I'm not gonna say you can't have any more of the tea." He was, he thought, being eminently reasonable. "I'm not your mother or your boss. But you know how I feel about it, you know I'm not gonna—" He was about to say _kiss you_ when a memory clicked into place: the way Cas had distinctively not kissed him last night on the couch. Dean felt ill. "Were you high last night?" he asked. It came out too quiet, a little hoarse because there didn't seem to be enough air in his lungs. He took a deep breath, and another, but it didn't help, only made him a little lightheaded when he kept doing it and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"Dean? It's okay, just try to—" Sam was there, in the doorway behind him, and Dean couldn't hear what he was saying. The blood pounding in his ears was deafening, and he swayed where he stood.

There were hands on his face, holding him here on this planet, and Dean focused with effort on Cas' face as he shook his head, firmly, staring into Dean's eyes so hard Dean could feel it. Then he kissed Dean, quick and hard. It wasn't comfort, wasn't affection—it was a denial, a protest of innocence, and an oath. Dean found himself being led by the hand to the kitchen counter where Cas had set his tea. The other man picked up the string dangling from the mug, and Dean saw the paper tab attached to the end. Earl Grey.

"Okay," Dean mumbled, not really hearing himself. He leaned into Cas, folding against him. "Sorry," he added, the word sinking into Cas' skin like water into sand. His lips brushed Cas' neck, rough with an extra days' worth of beard above the collar of his pale blue shirt. The shirt was different from his usual white Oxford; it was soft cotton, loose-fitting, nothing like the old outfit. It was more like something a hippie would wear, just like the other Cas had worn when Zachariah had thrown Dean into the future.

Realization struck home. Dean jerked away as though Cas' embrace burned, and he looked. It wasn't just like Future Cas' shirt, it _was the same shirt_. Dean had never seen it before, linearly speaking, and he stared in total incomprehension. "What are you wearing?" he demanded.

"I stopped by the thrift shop yesterday on my way to do the grocery shopping," Missouri said. "I thought it might be nice for Castiel to have a change of clothes or two, since he doesn't have a duffel bag like you and Sam."

Dean stared at her, feeling like she'd stabbed him in the gut. "You," he breathed, "you did this to him. You did all of this," and then his stomach twisted horribly and he was moving, shoving past Sam on his way out of the kitchen, stumbling past the living room and out the front door where he fell to his knees and emptied his guts into a flower bed. He heaved, arms shaking, until he had no strength left to hold himself up. Sagging to the side, away from the mess, he curled up on the ground and sobbed.

Sam was there, somehow, pressing a damp cloth to the back of Dean's neck, making shushing noises and petting Dean like Dean used to do for him when they were both little and Sammy had the flu. Dean was grateful, though he wouldn't say it; he knew Sam knew, so he just lay there, trying to understand why the universe seemed so hell-bent on fucking him in the ass.

Speaking of which, the adrenaline was wearing off for the first time since he'd woken up, and he was becoming aware that the fetal position was not ideal for alleviating the inevitable soreness from last night's encounter. Dean straightened his legs, carefully, and a perversely sharp twinge made his lower half jerk in pain. "Fuck," he spat.

Sam petted his hair a little more firmly. "You're okay," he said, meaningless. A pause, and then: "Do you want to talk about it?"

 _What's there to talk about?_ Dean almost laughed. He could tell Sam about how Cas had fucked him last night without even kissing him and then practically kicked him out of bed right after. He could tell him about how he finally had Cas and was about to lose him, because he was fast turning into the broken creature Dean had seen when the douchebaggiest of angels had zapped Dean into 2014, which was only _next year_ for anyone keeping score at home. He could bitch and moan to his baby brother about how anything he tried to do to save the world only ended up ruining things further, and he was just about ready to tell the world to go fuck itself because it would probably have more fun doing that than with any help Dean tried to give it.

He didn't say any of those things. Instead, he sat up, raked his fingers through the mulch in the flower bed and threw a handful of it on top of his mess. "Roses like acidic soil, right?" he muttered.

He could feel Sam's quizzical look without seeing it. "I don't know, Dean," he said. "That's not information I have. Why do you think I'd know what roses like?" Dean shrugged. "I'm sure the flowers will be fine," Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Otherwise Missouri will kill me." He stood, scrubbing at his face with the less-dirty hand. "I need a shower."

"I wasn't gonna mention it," Sam said airily. Dean snorted and directed a half-hearted almost-punch at him.

Inside, he headed straight up the stairs to the bathroom. He could apologize to Missouri when he was clean and dressed and feeling something like human again. And Cas...he didn't know what he would say to Cas. He didn't really want to think about it. He didn't know if he could look at him again.


	5. Chapter 5

When Dean came back downstairs, there was a fresh pot of coffee brewing and a plate of fresh waffles on the table. He was hesitant to raise his eyes from the food to the man seated at the table, but when he did, he sagged in relief. Cas had changed out of the blue shirt, into one of Dean's—he must have gone into Dean's duffel while Dean was in the shower, but Dean didn't mind. It was one of his Led Zeppelin shirts, United States of America 1977. Dean looked at the winged figure spread out across Cas' chest and bit his tongue.

Missouri set a small pitcher of syrup beside the waffles. "Are you feeling better, Dean?" she asked. "Castiel and I were worried."

"Yeah," he answered. "Thanks. Um..." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. About what I said to you, that was rude and I—I didn't mean it." Well...he had, actually, because it _was_ her fault. Technically, she was the one enabling Cas to turn into the ruin of a man Dean had been trying to forget. But he knew she didn't _mean_ to.

She nodded, gesturing at an empty chair and taking the other. "It's all right," she said. "Do you mind me asking what upset you so much?"

Dean took his time sitting down, arranging his napkin in his lap and adjusting his silverware before answering. "Remember I mentioned the future?" He glanced uncertainly at Cas, unsure of how much he should say. The old maxim of every time-traveler was running through his head—no one should know too much about their own future, right? "It...wasn't very nice, what I saw," he said lamely. "And something reminded me of it."

"The future isn't written in stone, Dean," Missouri said gently. "You averted the Apocalypse, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts," Missouri cut him off. "Believe me, I should know. I'm a psychic, remember? The future is always shifting. It'll make you seasick trying to look at it, if you focus too hard. So don't worry about some inevitable future you think you're headed towards, Dean, because I am here to tell you, there is no such damn thing."

Dean wasn't sure what to say to that. He wasn't sure if he believed her; the man sitting next to him looked a hell of a lot like the drugged-up hedonist he'd met in the future. Sure, Cas could shave and give his hair a trim, clean himself up so he didn't _look_ so much like Hippie Future Cas, but if he kept trying to self-medicate with mind-altering substances, Dean could easily see him falling right back onto that path. Once they'd left Missouri's, maybe Cas wouldn't be able to get the psychic morphine tea anymore, but Dean shuddered to think what would happen if he discovered pot, or heroin, or crystal meth.

There was no point in arguing with Missouri, though; Dean was no fool, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Sam. How are you doing? Any better?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "I can get by with just normal painkillers now. No more tea for me either."

"Good," Dean said, relieved. The less of that stuff anyone was taking, the better. He was under no illusions, though; he knew that by _painkillers_ Sam didn't mean ibuprofen. "Did Cas take any of that?" The question was out before he was aware of thinking about it—their stash of Vicodin was one more thing to worry about.

"I don't think so," Sam said, looking at Cas. Cas shook his head, looking slightly disgruntled. "You could probably ask him yourself, though. He's right here."

"Fine," Dean said, feeling defensive. He was pretty sure he had a right to want to know, seeing as he and Cas had an agreement that Cas wouldn't kiss him while he was high, and Cas had kissed him, and Vicodin counted as being high in Dean's book. "Cas, did you take any of that shit?"

Cas shook his head again, glaring outright at Dean now. He stabbed his fork into the waffle on his plate a bit harder than necessary.

"Okay, so we're fine, right?" Sam said, instantly placating. "Everyone's fine. Let's move on."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "You know, that's not a bad idea." He knew Sam was referring to changing the subject, but he was starting to feel a little stir-crazy, having stayed in someone's house for so long already. "Missouri, we appreciate everything you've done for us so much, but we've imposed on your hospitality—"

"Stop right there," she said firmly. "Sam may be better than he was, but he's nowhere near well enough to travel yet. He's not going anywhere, not for another day at least."

"Okay," Dean said, quelled. He wasn't about to argue, not when it came to Sam's health.

They finished the meal in relative silence. Afterward, Sam decided it was his turn to do the dishes, since he was feeling better; Dean trusted Missouri to make sure he wouldn't overexert himself, and when she suggested he and Cas go and weed the back garden, he agreed with only slight hesitation.

A little less than half the backyard was bordered by flower beds, lining the fence at the back and partway up the left side. A gazebo, small but elegant, took up most of the right side of the yard, towards the back. Against the house, the lawn gave way to a concrete patio, home to a charcoal grill, a few chairs, and not much else. The rest was grass, neatly trimmed and well-watered.

When Dean headed outside after retrieving a couple pairs of gardening gloves and trowels, he found Cas standing in the middle of the lawn. His face was turned up towards the sun, his arms held out slightly from his sides, and he was smiling as tears streamed from beneath his closed eyelids.

"Cas?" Dean said, hesitant and worried. No, he wasn't worried, he was fucking scared—Cas was slipping away from him, he could practically feel it. He dropped the things he was carrying. Cas opened his eyes to meet Dean's, and the look on his face broke Dean's heart. "Hey," he said, reaching out, and Cas didn't resist as Dean pulled him into his arms. He buried his face in Cas' hair, regardless of the fact that he still hadn't showered.

The contact was soothing to them both. When Cas stopped crying, he drew back and gave Dean a wistful smile. Dean's hands came up to cup his face, thumbs brushing over Cas' cheekbones to erase the tear tracks. "It's okay," he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to Cas' lips. "It's gonna be okay." It felt like a lie. _Chalky_ , he thought, incongruously.

Cas stooped to pick up a pair of the gloves that Dean had dropped. He pulled them on, turning away from Dean and heading toward the end of the flower bed closest to the house.

"Okay," Dean said, "Yeah. You start at that end, I'll start at the other one and we'll meet in the middle, okay?"

Cas glanced back over his shoulder and nodded curtly before kneeling down and starting to work. Dean headed toward the opposite corner of the yard, wondering why everything felt so strange. It wasn't like Cas to be so dismissive of him.

Dean fell into a rhythm as he worked, a couple hours slipping by unnoticed; the task was pleasantly mindless, soothing, almost numbing. He'd find a plant that shouldn't be there, reach for it, grip it near the soil, and pull it out. Reach, grip, pull. At one point he paused, as the sun brought beads of moisture to the surface of his skin, and pulled off his t-shirt, tucking it into his back pocket before continuing his work.

A shadow interrupted him. He looked up to find Castiel standing over him, blocking the sun, silhouetted against the sky. "Hi," Dean said, a little uncertainly; he couldn't see Cas' face. "What's up?"

Cas' hand brushed over Dean's forehead, smoothing away beaded sweat in a curiously tender caress. He wasn't sure where this was coming from, but there was no part of him that wanted to object, not when Cas' hand cupped the base of Dean's skull, pulling with gentle pressure as he took a step closer to Dean, and Dean found himself rising up on his knees, shucking his gardening gloves.

This was right. It was unshakable knowledge, this was where he belonged, on his knees in front of Cas, his hands on the other man's thighs for balance, pressing his face against the bulge in Cas' jeans as the sun beat down on the back of his neck. "Can I?" he murmured, but Cas was already hard and he had no reason to say no. The gazebo completely obscured them from view; no one in the house would be able to look out and see him blowing Cas.

He grabbed at Cas' waistband, wrenching the button and zipper open. The boxers Cas was wearing were the ones he'd had all along, Dean was pretty sure, even if the rest of his clothes were clean. Dean didn't care if Cas smelled a little ripe; he pulled the other man's erection free of his underwear, impatient. Cas made a short noise in the back of his throat, hips thrusting a little into Dean's hand, and Dean grinned and swiped his tongue over the flushed head.

Cas gave a short cry, biting his lower lip to silence himself, both hands clenching in Dean's hair. Dean curled his tongue under the head, tasting a hint of salty precome, sweat, musk. He'd need to talk to Cas about showering. Not that his smelling a little ripe was going to stop Dean from wrapping his lips around Cas's dick and sucking like his life depended on it. He held Cas by the hips as he relaxed his throat and took him deep, until he couldn't breathe.

The sounds Cas was making were choked-off, smothered, as though they were escaping Cas' lips without his permission. He had no such restraint when it came to his body, though, thrusting into Dean's mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of Dean's throat so that he had to swallow hard against his gag reflex, his eyes watering reflexively. He looked up, meeting Cas' eyes as the other man rocked his hips, pushing deeper. The look on his face was wild, desperate need, and Dean did his best to relax his throat and let Cas fuck his mouth, taking what he needed.

He half-swallowed his cry when he came, spilling searingly hot down Dean's throat. Dean had no choice but to swallow, and when Cas pulled back and let go of his hair, Dean found that he was shaking slightly. His thighs ached with the effort of staying upright so he let himself slump, sitting on his heels and trying to remember how to breathe, how to get air past the ache in his throat before the dark spots around the edges of his vision gained a foothold.

Cas' hand brushed over Dean's hair, and Dean fought back a wince. His scalp was stinging from the hair-pulling, but he forced a smile because he knew Cas hadn't meant to hurt him. His own cock was still hard, trapped in his jeans, and he opened his mouth to maybe ask if Cas wouldn't mind returning the favor, maybe just a hand because he still wasn't sure he was comfortable with the idea of Cas on his knees. His throat wouldn't work, though, when he tried to speak.

The ache in his groin was beginning to subside, as Cas tucked himself back into his jeans and refastened them. Dean swallowed, but that hurt his throat too, so he just sat there, waiting for his erection to wilt. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and he blinked hard, shaking his head to try to dispel it. When he looked up again, Cas was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam found him. Dean wasn't sure how much later it was, but his throat still hurt, and the back of his neck and ears were beginning to smart from the sun. His legs were asleep under him, and when Sam held out a hand to help him up, it took him a moment to remember what to do, to reach out and grasp his brother's arm and let him haul Dean to his feet. He stumbled and clung to Sam, fighting back a wave of pain-nausea as circulation and sensation returned to his legs.

"Did you and Cas have another fight?" Sam asked gently, no blame in his tone.

"What?" Dean looked at him blankly. His voice was still hoarse.

Sam frowned. "You okay? You sound like you've been strangled."

Dean shook his head, rubbing at his throat with one hand. "'M okay," he mumbled. He stepped away from Sam, carefully, testing to see if his legs would support his weight now. They would, but his right foot was still a little sluggish, and he limped as he started back toward the house.

"Dean," Sam said, falling into step beside him. "It's okay to ask for help. It's okay to not be okay."

Dean stopped again, turning to look at Sam. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Sam said. "Do you know why Cas was crying when he came inside?"

Dean blinked, thrown off-balance by the question, the apparent non-sequitur. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe something reminded him of Heaven." He heard the words as they came out of his mouth; they sounded like a stupid euphemism, and he blushed. "Or something."

Sam hummed noncommittally. "I'll talk to him." He held open the back door for Dean.

Dean was about to ask why, but Missouri caught sight of him and _tsk_ 'd so hard he was afraid she would hurt herself. "What have you done to yourself, boy?" she demanded. "Given yourself heatstroke? You sit down and don't move until you've rehydrated."

Now that she mentioned it, Dean _was_ feeling a little lightheaded. He'd put it down to being thrown off-kilter by Cas, but when Missouri gave him a bottle of pink Gatorade, he was surprised by how fast he drank it.

"Here," Missouri said, handing him a small plate, upon which was something hideous. It was bright green and slimy, oozing yellowish goo.

"What is that?" Dean asked, trying to keep the alarm from his voice.

"Aloe vera," she said, gesturing at the potted plant under the window. One of its thick leaves was cut off, oozing the same slime. Upon closer inspection, the piece on the plate had been sliced down the middle. "Put it on your sunburn and let it dry."

"I thought aloe only came in bottles of lotion," Dean muttered, hesitantly running a finger through the slime. He brought it to the back of his neck, smearing it on the heated skin. "You better not be playing a prank on me. I get enough of that from Sam." To his astonishment, it was almost instantly soothing, noticeably cooler where he rubbed the goo. "Hey—speaking of which, where is Sam?" His brother had apparently vanished while Dean was drinking the Gatorade.

"Upstairs, I think," she said.

Right, Sam had said he was going to talk to Cas. Intending to find out just what the hell that was about, Dean hastily smeared the rest of the goo on his neck and ears, thanked Missouri, and headed upstairs.

He found the door to the guest room closed. He reached for the doorknob, then paused, listening. Sam was speaking, inside.

"You're using sex as a weapon," he was saying. "No, listen. I know you don't mean to, but that's what you're doing."

Dean dropped his hand, uncertain whether he wanted to hear this, whether he should interrupt, or just back away and let Sam finish his speech. Caught in indecision, he stayed where he was.

"I get that you're hurting, and lashing out," Sam said. "I understand what you must be feeling."

That sound was unmistakably a derisive snort from Castiel.

"I do," Sam insisted. "I had Lucifer inside me, remember? I felt every—" His voice cracked. "I'm not comparing you to him, Cas. I'm not. But if you think I don't know what it feels like to be an angel expelled from Heaven? You think I don't know how much that hurts?" A brief shuffling sound, and then, "No, I don't want your pity, Cas, any more than you want mine. This isn't about me. This is about Dean. Do you really not see what you're doing to him?"

This was uncomfortable. Dean was torn, wanting to leave to save himself the embarrassment, curiosity rooting him in place.

"He loves you, Cas," Sam said, low and insistent. "And I know you love him too, but it seems a hell of a lot like you're taking him for granted. You need to take a good, hard look at your actions and how they affect the people you care about. Dean's not gonna speak up for himself. He won't even admit you're hurting him, because he loves you so damn much. So you need to make sure you don't hurt him any more than you already have."

A pause, and then: "You _have_ hurt him, Cas. I don't know the details of what happened, but I'm not an idiot. His throat was so bruised he could barely talk when I went to find him— _sit down_. I'm not done." Sam sounded angry, but his voice softened as he continued. "Dean's fine. Missouri's looking after him.

"I guess it's traditional, or something, for the brother or the best friend or whatever to give a speech to the new boyfriend, about how if you hurt Dean I'll kill you. But I'm not gonna. We've come too far together for that, and I know you didn't mean to hurt him. Maybe you didn't even know you were. I know you're still new to relationships, and to being human, and it's not easy for anyone, first time out. I wanna help you through it, if I can. I know Dean does too. So if you need help, if you have any questions, just ask. And I guess all I can say, right now, is be careful. Okay? Think about everything you're doing, and make sure you're not hurting him, because I can assure you, losing him is gonna feel way worse than anything you're going through now."

Dean almost laughed. Sam couldn't be serious—what kind of breakup would be as bad as an angel losing his Grace? But the thought had barely formed before he was trying reflexively to smother it. The idea of breaking up with Cas made him sick, the same kind of dull-sharp pain that nauseated him like sensation returning to a lifeless limb.

The doorknob turned, before Dean had the presence of mind to move. Sam frowned at him. "How long have you been eavesdropping?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Long enough," he said. He paused, then reached out and clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Thanks," he said, brusque. No sappy bullshit.

"Yeah," Sam said. "No problem. Uh, how's your throat?"

Dean coughed lightly, testing it. "I'll take an ibuprofen or four," he decided. He glanced past Sam, into the room.

Cas was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He looked abjectly miserable. Dean gave Sam another absentminded pat and pushed past him into the room proper.

Dean heard the door latch shut behind him. Castiel stood, transfixing Dean with his gaze, and Dean took a step towards him as though pulled by some irresistible force.

"Dean," Castiel said, quiet but clear. "I'm sorry."

Dean blinked hard, trying to clear his vision of the tears obscuring his sight of Cas' blue eyes. "Don't," he breathed, "don't be sorry, Cas." He wrapped his arms around the other man, needing his warmth, the reassuring solidity of his body, the strength as he gripped Dean back. "It's okay. I'm okay, and you're okay now, we're okay." It sounded like babbling, but he meant it.

"Dean," Cas said again, and his voice thrilled Dean, vibrating through his bones. He would never get tired of hearing Cas say his name. Cas continued, "I'm not sorry that I—that we had sex. I don't regret that. But I'm sorry that I hurt you. I wish I could take it back, and do it over so that I don't cause you pain."

Dean tucked his face in against Cas' neck, hiding a grin. "We can do it over," he said. "There will be plenty of opportunities to try again and get it right. We can try everything."

"I look forward to that," Cas said. "Dean. May I kiss you again?"

"Yes," Dean said. "God, yes." He pressed his lips to Cas', gentle but firm, and Cas tightened his hold on Dean as he kissed back, mouth opening slightly under Dean's, little teasing flicks of his tongue drawing an involuntary moan.

Cas broke the kiss, pulling back a little to speak. Dean chased his lips for a moment, subsiding when Cas persisted in eluding him. "Do you truly forgive me, Dean?" he asked.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean said. "I do. You weren't trying to hurt me, right? You just wanted to get off." Cas nodded, not quite meeting Dean's eyes. "Believe me, I know what that's like. I can't blame you for that. Besides, like Sam said, you're new to all of this, you're still learning. I can help you."

Cas kissed him again, quickly. "I would like that," he said. "You also need to tell me if I'm hurting you, so I can stop."

"We could, uh." Dean felt himself blush. "We could use a safeword."

Castiel blinked at him, cocking his head to the side. "Like in _Fifty Shades of Grey_?"

"What? No! Not like in—Cas, have you been reading that shit?"

The other man shrugged. "I needed something to pass the time, while I was on the run from Naomi," he said. "The Biggerson's waitresses always seemed to approve of my choice of reading material."

"No," Dean said, wincing. "Okay, you know what? My safeword is _Christian_. If I ever say that, you stop whatever you're doing. And please tell me you haven't been getting ideas from stuff you've read in those books."

"I haven't," Cas said. "I found much of it confusing and unrealistic, based on my admittedly limited experience with human sexuality."

"Yeah, okay," Dean said. "Good. That's...good."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas."

"What if you want to use your safeword, but you can't speak because my penis is in your mouth?"

Dean choked on a laugh. "If you fuck my face to the point where I need to safeword, I'll just bite you," he said. At Cas' look of horror, he quickly added, "Kidding! Jesus, I would never do that to a guy. Um, I'll snap my fingers three times."

"Okay," Cas agreed, and kissed him again, unhurried but thorough, pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth, casually possessive. Dean's body, pressed full-length against Cas', was beginning to respond. He threaded his fingers in Cas' hair...and stopped, grimacing.

"Cas. There's no real tactful way to say this. You really need a shower." Dean brushed a thumb over Cas' cheek. "Probably a shave, too."

Cas lowered his gaze, almost bashful. "I've never showered before," he murmured. "I'm not sure I know how. Will you help me?"

"Of course," Dean answered immediately. "You know I'll help you any way I..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing. "Is this a ploy to get me into the shower with you?"

Cas looked up through his lashes, almost coy. "Yes," he admitted. "Is it going to work?"

Laughing, Dean caught his mouth with his own, answering with lips and tongue and the press of his body, before veritably dragging Castiel down the hall to the bathroom.


	7. Chapter 7

"I wasn't going to say anything," Cas said, "but while we're on the subject of hygiene, did you know you have some yellowish foreign substance on your skin?"

Dean boggled at him. "What? Where?"

"Here," Cas said, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the curve of Dean's ear. Dean shivered pleasantly. "And the back of your neck."

"Oh..." Dean had forgotten his sunburn. A quick check in the bathroom mirror showed the redness nearly completely faded, only the dried residue of the aloe remaining. "Yeah, I put that on. It's aloe. I'm pretty sure it'll wash off."

"Good," Cas declared. His hands were on Dean's waist, lifting his shirt. "I'd like to kiss you there, but the aloe doesn't look appetizing."

Dean was blushing again. Damn it. "I'll wash that first," he promised. "Meanwhile, you can start by kissing parts of me that aren't covered in aloe, how about that?" He could feel his face burning; he didn't _ask_ for things like that, usually. With anyone else, he would have just taken it.

Cas wasn't anyone else.

Cas also demonstrably had no aversion to just taking what he wanted. Dean found himself backed up against the bathroom door, the other man's mouth hot on his, a thigh pressing between Dean's legs and hands under his shirt. Cas moaned into Dean's mouth, his erection pressed hard against Dean's hip. "Dean," he murmured, and nipped at Dean's lower lip. Dean gasped, his cock throbbing, and Cas tugged with his teeth for a moment before releasing the lip and closing his mouth over Dean's throat instead, driving him wild with tongue and teeth.

"Cas," Dean whimpered. His underwear was damp with precome, he needed to warn Cas to stop because it would be really embarrassing if he came in his pants, and weren't they supposed to be doing something else anyway? Cas' mouth was making it hard to think straight.

"Yes, Dean?" Cas growled. His voice was pure sex. He nibbled on Dean's ear, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge before he drew back and grimaced. "The aloe is bitter."

"Shower. That's what we...we were going to take a shower," Dean remembered. "And shave. C'mon." He tugged Cas' shirt up. "The making out can wait."

"I've never..." Cas began, strangely hesitant, as he hadn't been with regards to sex. "I don't know how to shave, Dean."

"I'll help you," Dean told him. "Don't worry. I told you, Sam and I are gonna help you learn to be human."

It was the wrong thing to say. Cas' face crumpled in the moment before he turned away, hiding from Dean, but the mirror over the sink caught the side of his face, anguished.

 _Shit._ "I'm sorry," Dean said quickly. "Cas—" He wasn't sure what to say to make it better.

"It hurts," Cas choked. "Not as much when I don't think about it. Only when I remember what I've lost." His hands curled into fists at his sides. "It feels like a blade in my chest."

Dean wrapped his arms around Cas, powerless and hating it. He held him until the other man's stifled sobs subsided. "Can I ask...?" he said softly. "If remembering what you've lost causes you so much pain...why did you choose to wear the one shirt I own with an angel on it?"

Cas was silent a moment before answering. "It was the one that smelled the most like you," he said. "That comfort is worth the image."

Dean buried his face in Cas' hair, tightening his grip. "Anything I can do," he murmured. "Tell me what you need."

"I believe you were going to teach me how to shave," Cas said steadily.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. He could do that much. "You start by wetting your face. Makes the hair easier to cut." He grabbed his razor and put in a fresh blade as Cas turned on the water. Dean reached over and closed the drain, allowing the sink to fill, then picked up the can of shaving cream.

"Why did you take my shirt off?" Cas asked.

"Don't wanna get shaving cream on it," Dean said. "Ordinarily I wouldn't worry about it, but I'm more used to shaving myself than anyone else. Accidents happen."

"Then maybe you should take your shirt off as well," Cas suggested.

Dean glanced at him and caught Cas' lips twitching. "Not a bad idea," he said, and pulled the shirt over his head before dispensing a handful of shaving cream. "Come here," he said, rubbing his palms together, working the cream into lather. Castiel stepped closer, and Dean spread the cream on his face.

"That feels nice," Cas murmured. He leaned into Dean's touch.

"Yeah," Dean managed. The rasp of Cas' beard under his fingertips was heightened by the cream, and it felt almost electric. Dean found his skin prickling into goosebumps. "It's nice." He cleared his throat and picked up the razor. "Hold still."

Cas sighed with the first pass of the blade over his skin, his eyelids fluttering shut. He was trembling finely, and Dean cupped a hand around the back of his neck to hold him still. His lips were parted, moist, and Dean fought the urge to kiss him. If he kissed him now, they'd get distracted again, and end up with one shaved patch on Cas' face and shaving cream all over the place.

"Okay," Dean muttered. "You want to shave with the grain to keep from irritating your skin too much. Like this. Careful with the corners of your mouth."

Cas opened his eyes. "Are we finished yet?" he asked. His voice was pitched low, urgent. He shifted closer to Dean, pressing his body full-length against Dean's. He was hard, his cock straining in his jeans, and Dean caught his breath, his hips hitching reflexively against the other man, his own erection throbbing.

"Almost," Dean said. "Gotta get your neck and under your jaw. No one likes neckbeard." He tipped Cas' chin up with two fingers and finished the job as fast as he could without cutting Cas. He checked to make sure he hadn't missed any spots, drained the sink, rinsed the razor and dropped it on the counter as he crushed his mouth against Cas'.

Cas' lips opened under his, his tongue seeking Dean's, hands carding through Dean's hair. He moaned, little sounds of pleasure in the back of his throat. He broke the kiss, barely, just enough to speak, his lips dragging across Dean's. "Should we shower now?"

"Yeah," Dean managed. "Gotta get naked. I mean...clean." He took a step back, his hands lingering on Cas' skin. He needed to focus. "Okay. We gotta get our clothes off."

It was hard to stay on task, when undressing involved Cas' hands slipping over bare skin, dipping under the waistband of his underwear, mouth on the edge of Dean's jaw, dragging down his neck. "We should clean the aloe residue off your skin," he murmured. "It doesn't taste very pleasant."

Dean finished getting out of his clothes as fast as he could, helping Cas with his and pulling him into the shower. Under the spray, Dean quickly soaped and scrubbed the back of his neck, taking special care to wash the aloe out of the ridges of his ears. Cas tasted his skin, "To make sure you're clean," he said, and promptly resumed his attempt to drive Dean mad, devouring him as Dean tried to retain enough of his wits to finish washing them. It was easy enough to massage shampoo into Cas' scalp while kissing him, and Cas allowed Dean to soap him up, but his insistence on pressing Dean back against the tiled wall as he plundered his mouth made it impossible for Dean to wash his own body.

"Cas," Dean gasped, as they broke for air, trying to gather his thoughts enough to remember what it was he wanted to say—something about washing himself?—a task made incredibly difficult by the way Cas was grinding against him, his cock sliding against Dean's soap-slickened skin. "This is what I wanted," he murmured instead, his lips brushing Cas', clinging to the other man. "Why didn't you kiss me last night, Cas?"

"Your mouth, Dean," Cas said. "It's too—I wanted to satisfy you, Dean. If we had kissed last night when we made love, I wouldn't have lasted." His voice was strained, and Dean realized with a start that Cas was just as close to losing it as he was. "I can't always keep control, when your mouth—even when you sucked on my fingers..."

"I remember," Dean said. His hips hitched in their rolling rhythm, thrusting hard against Cas' body. "Maybe you don't always need to keep control, though. Maybe you should let go, Cas." He caught Cas' mouth with his own again.

Cas did, his cry muffled in Dean's mouth as he spilled hot and sticky against Dean's skin, his hips still moving against Dean's until Dean followed, moments later, trembling between Cas' strong body and the tiled wall.

Long moments passed before either of them moved, or spoke. Finally, Dean shifted, moving back under the spray to wash them both clean again. Cas stood with his head bowed, not meeting Dean's eyes as he finished rinsing off and shut off the water.

"Was that...acceptable?" Cas asked at last.

"What, the sex?" Dean said, surprised. "Cas, that was...fuck, that was incredible." He frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"I just..." Cas shifted his weight awkwardly. "You see what I mean. I can't last, I can't hold back when your mouth is involved."

Dean cleared his throat and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel for himself and handing one to Cas. He felt his face burning; saying things like that was one thing mid-coitus, but Castiel's matter-of-fact evaluation outside of the haze of lust was almost embarrassingly blunt. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "I'd rather have you kiss me and go off early than last all night and not let me have _your_ mouth."

Cas smiled, almost reluctantly. "I'm glad you like my mouth," he said. "I do enjoy kissing you as well." His smile retreated much in the same manner it had appeared. "Just so you know, Dean. When I took the tea, I wasn't kissing you to distract you. I was kissing you because I wanted so badly to kiss you. I took the tea because I could, and I needed it—I wasn't seizing an opportunity, I wasn't employing demonic tactics. I just want—I need you to know. I wasn't using you. I wasn't taking advantage of your feelings for me." He gave an awkward half-shrug, rubbing the damp towel over his hair. "I realize now that my—what's the phrase? My timing could use some work."

Dean kissed him. He wasn't sure how else to respond to that; he only knew that in that moment, everything was absolutely right in the world, and he needed to show this man how much he loved him.

*****

There were muffled thumping sounds coming from the kitchen. "Come on, boy, put your back into it!" Missouri was saying. "I thought you were a big strong hunter, not some pampered princess."

"I'm recovering from a life-threatening illness, you think you could cut me some slack?" Sam retorted, followed by a meaty smack.

"That's better," Missouri said, as Dean rounded the corner into the kitchen to find Sam beating the hell out of a chicken breast on the counter. He wielded the meat tenderizer as though it were Thor's hammer, brandishing it before swinging his whole arm down onto the poor piece of meat. "That's what I'm talking about," Missouri said approvingly.

"Has the meat committed some offense, that it deserves such punishment?" Cas asked quietly, looking at Dean with wide eyes, only barely maintaining a straight face.

"Hey, look who's talking again!" Sam commented. "What happened, Cas?"

Cas shrugged. "I suppose that what I needed to say was too important to not remember how to speak," he said, glancing at Dean.

Sam looked from one to the other. "Well? What did you say?"

"I told Dean I was sorry," Cas said quietly.

"Good," Sam declared.

"Not that it's really any of your business," Dean added.

Sam just smiled and dealt the chicken another devastating blow with the meat hammer.

"Well, then," Missouri said. "Let's have another look at you." She wiped her floury hands on a dish towel, coming over to the two of them. She grasped Cas' face in both hands and peered into his eyes, then made a satisfied noise and released him.

"Well?" Dean said. "What do you see?"

"I see a very handsome young man who ought to be helping me make a salad," she said.

"Missouri," Dean protested. "Please. Don't give us the runaround, here."

She sighed, returning to the chicken. "His road will not be an easy one," she said. "But I don't expect that comes as much of a surprise, to any of you. Remember the future is not set in stone. I see pain there, but there is joy as well. Happiness, as few souls ever get the chance to know."

Castiel squeezed Dean's hand. Dean swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat, chancing a quick glance at Cas. The other man gave him a smile, ever so slight. Sam, finished abusing the chicken breasts, set to work dipping them in breading and pretended not to notice as Dean swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I was serious about that salad," Missouri said.

"Is there a recipe?" Cas asked, looking worried.

Dean chuckled. "Come on, we can figure this one out together."


	8. Chapter 8

At dinner, the flattened, breaded chicken turned out to be schnitzel—which was not, Dean learned, a sausage, nor was it traditionally served with noodles. It was, however, delicious, which Cas made sure to tell Missouri several times; Dean suspected he was making up for not thanking her for previous meals when he wasn't talking. Cas' forays into salad-making had been largely successful, too, and he smiled brilliantly when Sam told him so.

Dean felt lighter, seeing that smile. He felt a little conceited, assuming that he was the cause; but on the other hand, Cas had grabbed his hand when Missouri said he would be happy, and Dean couldn't think of any other way to interpret that gesture. He could ask, he realized; now that Cas was speaking again, he could always ask, but Dean feared it might be begging the question.

There was also a small part of him that feared it wouldn't last. Cas had spent most of a day weeping brokenly for his lost Grace, and who could blame him? Surely that wasn't something he could just get over, just because he had a new boyfriend, or whatever Dean was to him. Just because he was in love.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean muttered around a mouthful of ice cream, barely audible.

Castiel looked at him. "Yes, Dean?"

Dean swallowed, feeling the cold confection slide down his throat, all the way down. "I love you," he said quickly.

Cas regarded him steadily. "I know."

Dean blinked. "Did you just—"

Sam failed to entirely stifle a snicker. "Dude, I think you just got Han Solo'd! Cas, I'm so proud of you."

"No way," Dean protested. "He's never seen Star Wars!"

"You know that makes you Princess Leia," Sam said.

"Excuse me," Missouri put in. "Castiel has spent how many years on Earth, now? And in all that time, you've never shown him Star Wars?" She glared sternly at Sam and Dean. "You two have failed as ambassadors of humanity."

Sam ducked his head. "Sorry," he said.

"You are sorry," she agreed. "However, you're in luck. I have the original—and I mean _original_ , theatrical, un-remastered, non-special edition—trilogy on VHS."

Dean jumped to his feet. "I'll get the dishes," he said. "Sam, Cas, you go to the living room and get ready. Sam, make sure those tapes are rewound. All three of them, it's not that late yet. Missouri, do you have popcorn?"

"I do," she said. "I'll pop it while you clean up."

"Well? What are you sitting around for? Move!" Dean barked at the other two, in his best impression of his father.

He had never washed dishes so fast in his life. Missouri's television, it turned out, despite the outdated technology of the VCR, came with a truly impressive sound system. The THX sound sent shivers up his spine, and even Cas uttered a soft, "Oh." Dean grinned.

Cas was quiet through most of the first movie. Dean kept one eye on the screen and one on Cas, watching his reactions, but Cas betrayed little...until the duel between Darth Vader and Ben Kenobi. "Why did you drop your guard?" he demanded of the screen as Kenobi made eye contact with Luke across the landing bay, moments before Vader swung his lightsaber into the Jedi Knight's body. Cas clapped both hands over his mouth in horror.

After escaping the Death Star, Leia commented that the Empire had let them go, and Castiel, who had been silent until then, could no longer contain himself. "Of course they let them escape! They're going to follow them to the Rebel base and wipe them out! Why doesn't she realize that? She's leading the Empire right to her doorstep!"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, maybe she's new to the whole Rebellion thing. I mean, she used to be a member of the legitimate government, she's not used to secrecy and watching her tail."

"Quiet," Missouri ordered, and they watched the rest of the movie in silence, though Cas was on the edge of his seat for the entirety of the final battle.

Dean had to bite his tongue to keep from making a smart remark about Leia kissing her brother in the beginning of The Empire Strikes Back. Cas didn't know that little detail yet, and Dean wasn't willing to spoil the big reveal.

He wasn't disappointed. When Vader announced his identity to Luke, Castiel's gasp of shock was louder than Luke's scream. Dean grinned, popping the last few pieces of popcorn in his mouth. Cas was as entertaining as the film.

"Lando was trying to help all along," Cas said quietly at the end. "He did what he had to do, and his friend got hurt, but his intentions were good." He looked at Dean. "Han will be okay, won't he? They'll save him in the next film and undo what happened to him, right? And they'll forgive Lando for what he had to do."

"Cas," Sam said gently. "You're not Lando."

"I know," Cas said seriously. "Because that would make you Han, and we've already established that Dean is Princess Leia. I have to be Han."

"I am not Princess Leia!" Dean protested. "Put the next tape in. You'll see."

"I think I'll skip this one," Missouri said. "It's already past my bedtime."

About twenty minutes into the third movie, Cas sighed in relief. "I knew they'd save him," he said. Dean shushed him, and he sat in silence for the rest of the movie.

It was past midnight when the film ended. Cas looked at Sam, who was slouched in his seat, eyes half-lidded. "Leia said it too," Cas told him.

"What?"

"Leia said 'I know' to Han, too. Dean doesn't always have to be Princess Leia. We can take turns."

Sam blinked. "I don't need to know who's the girl," he said. "Keep that to yourselves."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Why you gotta do that?" he asked, his grammar lazy with exhaustion. "Gotta take everything and make it dirty? Besides, no one's the girl."

" _Don't need to know_ ," Sam repeated. He stretched. "Get off the couch, would you? I wanna go to sleep."

Dean frowned, but stood. "Shouldn't you sleep upstairs, so someone can look after you?"

"I'll be fine," Sam mumbled. "I feel totally normal, with the painkillers."

"He'll be fine," Cas agreed. "You and I should share the bed in the guest room, Dean."

Dean found it hard to argue. "Okay," he agreed, his face burning. "Goodnight, Sam."

He felt strangely jittery as he climbed the stairs, following Cas. By the time they got to the room, his stomach had tied itself in knots. It felt a little like his first time with Cassie Robinson, or with Rhonda—something new, and exciting, and hugely important. It wasn't, he tried to tell himself. It was just a bed. He'd slept in beds before. He'd slept with people he loved in beds before. It was no use; he couldn't shake the feeling that this was different.

Neither of them bothered turning on the light in the bedroom. Dean wasn't sure which of them moved toward the other, but Cas was in his arms, his lips against Dean's, his body warm and solid and hard. Dean's hands were moving, pulling off Cas' clothes, discarding his shirt and jeans before tugging his own t-shirt over his head.

"How do you want me?" Dean murmured. His heart felt like it was about to pound its way out of his chest, and he wondered if Cas could feel it.

Cas kissed him again, deep and slow, wrapping his arms around Dean and holding him tight against his body. "I want you in bed, under the covers," he answered. "Dean. I don't want to—to fuck you tonight."

"You don't?" Dean slackened his hold, trying not to feel hurt. He wasn't entitled to sex, and Cas had every right not to want it. He was confused, in light of the evidence he could feel pressing against his hip, but he wasn't going to argue.

"No," Castiel said. "I want to make love to you."

"Oh." Dean's whole body sagged in relief. "I thought you meant you didn't want...I mean, that you weren't..."

"I will always want you, Dean." Cas took both of Dean's hands in his. "I love you, too. I should have said it earlier."

"But you had to make the Han Solo joke," Dean said. He couldn't seem to control his smile. He leaned into Cas, his forehead resting against the other man's.

"Yes," Cas said. He stepped back, still holding Dean's hands, pulling him toward the bed. "Dean. I want—I need to do this right, this time."

"Tell me what you need," Dean said, sitting on the edge of the bed as Cas gently pushed him down.

"Right now, I need you to let me do this," Cas said, unbuttoning Dean's jeans and pulling them down along with Dean's underwear. He knelt between Dean's ankles, regarding Dean's bare body until Dean began to feel self-conscious.

"Talk to me," he said softly. His erection twitched reflexively under Cas' gaze. "I wanna hear you."

"I was under the impression that it's rude to talk with something in my mouth," Cas said.

"But you don't—" Dean began, breaking off with a gasp as Cas leaned down and wrapped his lips around Dean's cock. He couldn't stop his hips from bucking, thrusting into Cas' mouth. "Sorry!" he gasped, but Cas just glanced up at him, swallowing around Dean's length, taking it easily, and it was by far the hottest thing Dean had ever experienced. "Oh, God," he whimpered.

Cas pulled off slowly, dragging his tongue up Dean's shaft, sucking in a way that had Dean struggling not to come right then. "I want you under the covers," he reminded Dean, and stood up, giving Dean room to move. He was back a moment later, sliding under the sheet with him, lying full length along Dean's body with one thigh between Dean's.

"Hey," Dean murmured, wrapping his arms around Cas' waist to hold him there. He ground against him with a lazy roll of his pelvis. "Love you."

"I love you, too, Dean," Cas answered, his lips brushing Dean's jaw, pressing kisses in a line across his face to the corner of his mouth. His tongue dipped between Dean's lips, gently and thoroughly staking his claim.

The snap of the plastic bottle cap was so familiar a sound that it barely registered, at first; belatedly, Dean noticed the bottle of lube he usually kept in his duffel bag as Cas set it on the nightstand, his fingers glistening. Dean shut his eyes and shifted his hips, spreading his legs a bit wider and waiting for the cool, slick touch; when it didn't come, he opened his eyes again to find Cas' neck arched, his lips open on a gasp as he thrust his fingers into himself.

"Oh," Dean breathed. "Cas..."

Cas shifted, moving to straddle Dean, wrapping his slick hand around Dean's cock. "Hold still," he said.

"I'm trying," Dean gritted, wanting so badly to thrust up into that hand. His thighs trembled with the effort as Cas guided Dean's cock to his hole and sank down, impaling himself, enveloping Dean in tight heat. Tight, searingly hot, so he could barely even breathe—not like when Cas had fucked his face, not like he wanted to breathe and couldn't. Right now, he would be happy to die with Cas in his lap, buried to the hilt inside him.

"Are you all right, Dean?" Cas asked. His fingertips brushed along Dean's cheekbone, his eyes fixed on Dean's.

"Y-yeah," Dean managed. "Just...move, please? And kiss me."

Cas kissed Dean's eyelids, feather-light, before letting Dean capture his mouth again. He tasted of salt, and Dean licked it from his lips as Cas lifted himself in a fluid movement, then sank back down. "Like this?" he asked, his voice strained, his lips dragging over Dean's as he spoke.

"Fuck," Dean groaned. "Yeah. Like that. If that feels good for you, just—just keep doing that, okay?" He rolled his hips, thrusting up to meet Cas as the other man rode him. "Can I touch you?"

"You're touching me, Dean," Cas pointed out. Dean's hands were spanning Cas' back, warm skin under his palms.

"I mean..." Dean slipped a hand between their bodies, reaching to wrap it around Cas' shaft. He thumbed over the head, smearing slickness, and Cas' whole body jerked.

"Oh..." Cas moaned. " _Dean_." He clenched around Dean's cock, muscles squeezing him in all the right ways, and Dean groaned. "I won't last if you do that," Cas warned.

"Good," Dean said. "Neither will I." Truthfully, he'd been close since Cas had taken him in his mouth, hanging on through sheer force of will. Some part of him was surprised his balls hadn't exploded yet.

"Fuck, Dean!" Cas gasped, and covered Dean's mouth with his again. He was losing his rhythm, his pace erratic, leaking over Dean's fingers, and Dean wasn't sure if it was Cas' desperation and the knowledge that he was the cause or if it was simply hearing Cas swear, filthy words from his perfect mouth, but Dean was finished. His field of vision was obscured by light, bursting stars like supernovas, and his mind went blank.

His hand and belly were sticky, sweat cooling on his skin, Cas an unmoving weight on top of him. "Hey..." he said softly. "Cas?"

Cas shifted, just barely. His face was pressed against Dean's neck, his breath hot on Dean's skin. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas again, feeling his ribcage expand and contract with each breath, slow and steady.

"Are you asleep?" Dean asked. He was warm, the weight was comfortable, and he was fast becoming aware of just how exhausted he was. It was tempting as hell to just drift off to sleep with Cas in his arms, but... "Cas? Come on, man...if you fall asleep with my dick in your ass, we're both gonna regret it in the morning."

Cas groaned, moving just far enough for Dean's softened cock to slip out of him. "I liked that," he murmured. "Did you?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Liked it is an understatement," he said. "The kissing, that was fantastic. We need to do more of that." He resettled his arms around Cas. "Me inside you, that was...something. Dunno if I like it better than you inside me. Especially if you kiss me like that."

"I agree," Cas murmured. "We'll have to try that too."

"We can try everything," Dean said. "Not tonight. But we will. We've got time."

Cas' only answer was a gentle snore.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam and Missouri were halfway through a pot of coffee by the time Dean and Cas made their way downstairs, freshly showered and dressed. Cas had tried to clean the residual stickiness from Dean's belly with his tongue before giving up and resorting to soap and water. He had jerked them both off, linked hands wrapped around them together with hair conditioner easing the slide, and Dean was pretty sure the coffee wouldn't do much more to wake him up.

"You look happy," Sam commented.

"Me, or him?" Dean asked, cocking his head in Cas' direction.

"Both," Sam answered.

Dean shrugged. "I feel good," he admitted. "What about you? Doing any better?"

"I am, yeah," Sam said. "I'm down to just one Vicodin. Feeling pretty good."

"Good," Dean said. He looked to Missouri. "Can he travel? I mean, not that we don't love staying here, but—"

"I understand," Missouri said. "I think he'll be all right, as long as you don't make him drive."

Dean nodded. "Of course. We should get back, though."

"We left an almost-ex-King of Hell chained up in a church," Sam pointed out. "If he's still there, we should do something with him."

"Something?" Dean repeated. "What do you have in mind?"

Sam shrugged. "We have a dungeon..."

Missouri raised both eyebrows. "You have a what?"

"Literally. A dungeon," Dean confirmed. "Seems like as good a place to keep him as any."

Missouri packed them all lunches before they left. "Don't be strangers, this time," she ordered. "If I don't get a phone call from you every month, I'm going to come find you."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said. Sam saluted her.

*****

Crowley was more or less where they left him. He was still chained to the chair, though he'd managed to knock it over and scooted across the floor to the locked door of the church, which he had been absolutely unable to open from his position on the ground.

"You came back for me," he said, looking up at them with wide, brimming eyes.

"Pathetic," Dean commented. He kicked at Crowley's ribs, halfheartedly.

"I'm surprised no other demons came to rescue you," Sam said. "What's the matter? None of your other minions would take your call?"

Crowley shrugged. "No more human blood to use," he said. "You're the only one who cares enough to come back for me, Moose." He swallowed. "Sam."

"Ugh," Dean said. "Give it up, Crowley, you're not his type." He glanced at Sam. "I hope."

Sam shrugged, which wasn't hugely encouraging, but he showed no great care in hauling Crowley upright. "Help me hold him while I get him off the chair and re-chain him," he said. "The chair's not gonna fit in the Impala."

Crowley rolled his head back to look at Sam. "You're taking me with you?" he said, voice filled with hope. "You're not going to kill me?"

"Keep talking, we might change our minds," Dean warned. "Sam, can you gag him, while you're fucking around with his bindings?"

"No problem," Sam said.

*****

Kevin met them at the door to the dungeon as Dean and Cas dragged Crowley inside. "What's this?" he demanded. "Where the hell have you three been?"

"We went to get some help for Sam," Dean said shortly. "He's bringing the bags in from the car."

"Is Crowley our prisoner now?" Kevin asked.

"Yes," Cas told him. "We're putting him in the dungeon."

Kevin grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be good. Gonna get a taste of your own medicine, Crowster."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "You have a lot to learn when it comes to nicknames, pipsqueak," he said.

"No offense, but he's right," Dean agreed. "Don't worry, you've got time to learn."

" _You_ don't call me anything creative," Cas said. "Just 'Cas.'"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What do you wanna be called? Baby? Sugar? Honeypie?"

Kevin looked from one to the other. "Is that a thing now?" he wanted to know. "Are you two a thing?"

"Yes," Cas said. "Dean and I are a thing."

Crowley pouted at Cas as Dean affixed his limbs to the wall. "Everything I offered you," he said. "And you went for Mr. Emotionally Constipated over here?"

"He's not emotionally constipated," Cas said. "And you offered me very little."

"Is _that_ a thing?" Kevin pressed.

"No," Cas said. "He propositioned me repeatedly, and I refused him. He had nothing I wanted."

"I gave you Purgatory," Crowley protested.

"You betrayed me and tried to give Raphael Purgatory," Cas corrected. "Don't try to rewrite history."

Crowley grinned, unabashed. "There's always next time. And don't worry—it'll be a proper contract this time, soul and all, sealed with a kiss. So you can trust me." He waggled his eyebrows. "Hey, gorgeous, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"

Cas punched him in the face before Dean got a chance, then turned away, striding out of the dungeon. Dean double-checked the chains and followed.

"Hey," he said, when he caught up to Cas. "You okay?"

"I hurt my hand," Cas said, showing him. Two of his knuckles were split.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, hitting people in the face isn't usually a good idea. Come on, I'll help you clean that and get you some ice."

Cas was silent as Dean dabbed at his knuckles with rubbing alcohol. When he was finished, he said, "I've been thinking about the others."

"Others?"

"The other angels who fell," Cas clarified. "They might be having trouble adjusting. We could...I could help them."

Dean suppressed a smile. "You? No offense, Cas, but you're not the best at blending in with humans, yourself."

"I know," Cas agreed. "And I've had many more years on Earth than most of the others. The vast majority had never left Heaven before this."

Dean nodded slowly. "It'll take time, tracking them down," he said. "And I'm not sure how much we'll be able to offer them. But I'm willing to help you do as much as we can."

Cas flexed his wounded hand, his face set. "We've got work to do," he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one...originally, the story was going to end here. The night after I finished writing it, I realized it was way too happy an ending.


	10. Epilogue

Dean made burgers for the Fourth of July, and Sam made potato salad. They brought the food up to the hill above the bunker along with a picnic blanket, and Sam went back for a case of beer as Dean nearly tripped over Kevin, lying on his back in the tall grass.

"Hey," Dean said. "How long have you been lying there? All day?"

Kevin exhaled, blowing a stream of herbal smoke skyward. "Few hours," he said vaguely. "Been cloudwatching."

Dean frowned, catching sight of the joint between Kevin's fingers. "What the fuck is that?" he demanded, but he knew.

Kevin shrugged expressively. "It helps with the headaches," he said. "Medicinal. You know, it's not easy being a prophet."

"Whatever happened to Advanced Placement? I thought you were smarter than that, Kevin."

Kevin sat up, glaring at him. "You wanna know what happened, asshole? _You_ happened. You and Sam. And Crowley. My girlfriend died, my mother died, I got fucking divine insight raping my brain day and night, so forgive me if I want a little herbal relief from the fuckfest that is my life ever since it got Winchesterized."

"Okay," Dean said, shaking out the blanket and putting the basket of burgers on top of it. "Sorry." He sat down beside Kevin.

Cas arrived with a platter full of sliced watermelon. "I understand fireworks are traditional tonight?" he said, deadpan, but he caught Dean's eye and his lips twitched. Dean found himself blushing.

"That's the idea," Kevin said. "Today we celebrate the superpower status of our fair nation, complete with explosions. Two hundred thirty-seven years of proud bellicose history." He took another drag from the joint.

Cas leaned over unexpectedly, covering Kevin's mouth with his as the boy exhaled. Dean stared, his brain failing to process what he was seeing. "What?" he said. "What? What the—Cas, _what?_ "

"Relax, Dean," Kevin drawled. "Just sharing the smoke. Nothing going on here."

"Well, don't!" Dean snapped, his voice higher than he meant it, and loud. "Don't share the fucking smoke! I don't want Cas smoking that shit!"

"It's just pot," Kevin protested. "You can't get addicted, you can't overdose...what's the harm?"

"I don't want a stoner for a boyfriend," Dean said.

"I won't kiss you," Cas told him. "I remember our agreement. I haven't kissed you when I'm high."

Dean shook his head. "You don't get it, do you? I _want_ to kiss you. I don't want to have to check whether you're on drugs every time to know whether I can kiss you and have it be real."

"It's my choice, Dean," Cas said quietly. "I'll keep to our agreement. I'll never try to deceive you. But it's my choice."

Sam turned up with the beer, setting the case down on the blanket and sprawling in the grass. "Sorry that took so long," he said. "Crowley's being rambunctious. Wants to watch the fireworks. Keeps rattling his chains and yelling. What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Kevin said. He grabbed a beer. "How is the prisoner, anyway?"

"Still uncooperative," Sam said.

Dean didn't ask what that meant. He'd been leaving Crowley's interrogation to his brother; he'd had enough of torturing, and he was busy enough with Cas' ex-angels.

"He doesn't scream as much," Cas commented.

Dean nudged Sam. "You going soft, Sammy?"

"Never," Sam scoffed. "You're welcome to sit in on the interrogation sessions any time you want proof."

"Maybe Crowley's getting harder," Cas posited.

Kevin snorted. "Probably. I'm pretty sure he likes whatever it is you're doing to him down there. Whenever I go down there, he always asks when you're coming back."

Sam shrugged. "He's a fucked-up little masochist," he said, and avoided Dean's eyes.

The fireworks didn't live up to Dean's childhood memories. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a chance to sit and watch them on Independence Day; it was nice, being able to spend that time with his family, but overall, the display was not everything Dean hoped.

The end of the evening was difficult. Dean and Cas had shared a room since they'd returned home. Dean had trouble summoning the willpower to ask Cas to sleep on the living room couch, and even more trouble justifying it.

"I won't kiss you," Cas promised, his voice low. "I just wanna pound you into the mattress. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me to." His hands were on Dean's biceps, thumbs stroking up and down his bare skin, light enough to raise goosebumps.

"Cas," Dean begged. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"I thought that was the intent," Cas said, reaching down to cup Dean's half-erect cock through his pants.

Dean bit his lip, stepping back. "Please, Cas. Just go. I don't wanna fuck and not be able to kiss you, you know I hate that."

Cas glowered, turning to leave. "I thought there were supposed to be fireworks tonight," he said. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Dean shut the door gently after him. After a moment's consideration, he locked it. He didn't fear anything from Cas, ordinarily, but with his judgment compromised by drugs, Dean wasn't as confident. Cas had hurt him before; it had been a long time since then, but when he was putting his own needs ahead of consideration for Dean, there had been collateral damage.

It was a couple hours later when a quiet knock woke Dean. "Lemme in, Dean," Cas said. "Come on. We don't have to kiss, I just want—come on, you know what I want, Dean."

Dean groaned. "Go away," he called back. "I'm trying to sleep." He rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head. It never worked as well as he expected to muffle sound. He could still hear Cas just fine.

"Dean..." Cas knocked again, louder. "I want you. Please."

"Go whack off, then," Dean mumbled.

"Don't wanna," Cas returned. He kept knocking, banging on the door now, loud enough that it had to be hurting his hand. "Dean, I need _you_. My whole body's on fire, Dean, please."

"I said no, Cas," Dean snapped. "Come back when you're not stoned."

"I'm not stoned anymore! It's worn off, I swear it, Dean!" His pounding on the door was shaking it in its frame, rattling the hinges.

"You don't sound like yourself," Dean said. "And I said no, and I'm trying to sleep, and you've got a couch and two hands to take care of yourself. We'll talk in the morning. Leave me alone."

Cas' only answer came in the form of a sickening wet crunch and a wordless howl.

Dean was on his feet, stumbling for the door and throwing it open, staring in incomprehension at the smear of blood on the door where Cas had smashed his fist. "Dean," Cas said, his voice unsteady; there were pieces of bone protruding from the skin of his hand, and he swayed. Dean caught him.

" _Sam!_ " he screamed. It was long moments, too long, before Sam appeared, barreling around the corner, his shirt half-buttoned. Kevin appeared from the other direction.

"He needs the ER," Sam said, after one glance. "We can't fix this ourselves, not if he wants to get back full use of his hand. What the hell happened?"

"I don't know!" Dean said helplessly, as Kevin grabbed Cas' feet to help carry him to the Impala. "He just—I shut the door on him and he did this!"

Cas' face was paper-white by the time they got him into the car. They laid him in the back seat with his feet propped on Kevin's lap, a blanket tucked around him to stave off shock. Sam drove to Lebanon Memorial at nearly twice the speed limit.

The nurses cooed over Cas and drugged him up while they cleaned up the blood. A doctor showed up, clicked her tongue over the wound, and took Cas away to have his hand operated on.

"Hey, Sam? Find us some coffee, would you?" Dean asked, as they sat down in the least comfortable chairs ever invented.

"No," Sam said flatly. "That's not something I'm gonna do." Dean didn't press the issue.

"This is how it starts," Kevin said, his face drawn.

"How what starts?" Dean asked. He couldn't summon the effort to really care what Kevin was saying, and didn't listen to his answer.

Eventually, the doctor came back and showed them to a room. Cas was in a bed, his right hand wrapped in bandages and plaster, an IV taped to his left. His eyes never left Dean.

"Give me a minute with him, would you?" Dean asked quietly, and Sam nodded, pulling Kevin away.

"Dean," Cas murmured. "Why did you do this to me? Why wouldn't you let me in?"

That hurt, viscerally. "You did it to yourself, Cas," Dean said, his voice thick. "You were stoned and couldn't take no for an answer, and you did this to yourself."

Cas was quiet a moment, considering that. "Will you kiss me now?" he asked.

Dean looked at the morphine drip in Cas' hand. "I don't think so," he said.

Fat tears spilled over, falling onto the white hospital bedsheets. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No," Dean said, too quickly. "Cas. I love you. I'm not gonna dump you. I just—you know our agreement. We don't kiss when you're on drugs. That's how it is."

Cas shut his eyes, grimacing. "They're prescribing me painkillers," he said. "The kind you can't take and operate heavy machinery. That's what it says on the label." He made a sound, sharp and short, and it took Dean too long to identify it as a laugh. "I wonder what they'd say if I told them I used to be an angel, able to heal wounds like this in a matter of seconds."

"Is that what this is about?" Dean asked. "Getting high with Kevin, the medicinal marijuana, is that you trying to ease the pain of being human, still?" He chewed his lower lip. "I thought I was helping to ease your pain."

"And when you don't, what then?" Cas asked. "When you won't let me be with you? How am I supposed to get through the night when I can't hold you in my arms?"

"Don't you dare," Dean said. "Don't you dare pin this on me. I'm not your emergency flotation device, Cas, I'm your boyfriend. You're not entitled to use me when you need to and disregard the one thing I've asked of you since you fell!"

"I haven't!" Cas said. "I abide by your rule. I don't kiss you when I'm high. But you can't ask me to live with this pain and do nothing to try to help myself, when humankind has so many ways to make the mind forget that it hurts!"

Dean nodded slowly. "So you're gonna take the narcotics the doctors give you," he said. "In spite of everything."

"Dean..." Cas' voice broke. "I need to. I need them. Can't you understand that? Can you not allow me this one comfort?"

"I guess I won't be kissing you until the prescription runs out, then," Dean said with difficulty. His chest felt tight.

"Dean," Cas wailed.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered. "Cas. I can't." He fled the room.

Kevin was sitting in a row of different chairs in the hallway, just as uncomfortable-looking as the ones in the waiting room. "This is how it starts," he said again. "The morphine. Percocet. It's not my fault, Dean. It's not the weed. You don't get addicted to THC."

"I believe you," Dean said hollowly. "Where's Sam?"

"Bathroom," Kevin answered. "He wouldn't let me get coffee either."

Dean nodded in acknowledgment, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Missouri said the future's not set in stone," he said. "You weren't there. Chuck was. Sam was Lucifer and the world was crawling with Croats."

Kevin shrugged. "I don't know about Lucifer, or Chuck," he said. "I just get these fucking headaches, and do you know what Sam's been doing down in that dungeon? You've heard the chains jingling in the middle of the night?"

Dean sat down at the opposite end of the row. His head was swimming. "From your tone, I don't think I want to know," he said, grimacing.

"Okay," Kevin said.

Dean slammed his hand against the back of the empty seat beside him, not hard enough to do real damage. "Damn it! Kevin, tell me he's not fucking the demon."

"Um," Kevin said. "Um, he's not fucking the demon?"

Dean stared at him. The whole world was starting to feel a little less real and a little more like a nightmare he couldn't escape. There were images in his head of his brother and Crowley and he wanted to claw them out. "Can you say it in a way that will maybe make me believe you?" he pleaded.

Kevin shook his head. "Not really," he admitted. "Um, I guess I shouldn't mention the other thing, then."

Dean groaned, slumping over until his head hung between his knees. "Don't," he muttered at the floor. "I know. I've been trying to pretend I haven't seen the blood between his teeth when he comes up from his little interrogation sessions. But I have."

"I'm sorry about—" Kevin cleared his throat as a nurse walked by, and lowered his voice. "You know, the weed thing. And the shotgunning. I promise I'm not trying to steal your boyfriend."

"I don't care," Dean muttered. "I know you're not. It's almost 2014. Archangel apocalypse or not, we can't stop the passage of time."

"The future's not written in stone," Kevin reminded him. "But just between you and me, I think we should start hoarding toilet paper."


End file.
